


The Quiet Storm

by Oswald



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A story in three parts, Ancient Times, Cupid and Psyche AU, Gen, Gods AU, M/M, R76 RBB, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, animal death tw, oh god i'm so tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oswald/pseuds/Oswald
Summary: soft and warma quiet stormR76 Reverse Big Bang Challenge: Cupid and Psyche





	1. quiet as when flowers talk at the break of dawn

**Author's Note:**

> warnings this chapter for animal death

 

There was a time where the cities were only lit by candle light and the night was as still and quiet as the dawn. You could see all the stars in the sky, the universes in a world of endless black – the night bird song would ring through the air, and the embers that cooled in the hearth would keep the good people warm in their sleep. There was nothing like the cities we know now, the constant movement, the blurring lights and shattering noise; instead, towns were built with brick and mortar, their chimney pipes the only smog that clogged the air. People lived and died by the earth, the wind, the sea, and all clung to each other for support.

 

We know this as the time of Gods.

 

The Gods, who had overthrown their Titan parents, created the humans from the baked-red clay of the earth. The little clay figures lived in one spot and grew and grew.

Eventually, the humans broke into factions. Clay figures no more, they were travelers and explorers. Farmers, sailors, doctors and writers. They molded themselves after the Gods, their ever-loving protecters.

The powerful rose among those factions. Kings and queens graced their people with the word of their chosen God, using their wealth and status for gain and prosper. Lords and Ladies cultivated the earth with their citizens. Where there was once simplicity, complexity sprung forth.

 

Ironically, it was similar amongst the Gods. Although there were many celestials, there were only a handful that held any real power. The gods of sun and moon, earth and water, life and death – all children of the fallen titans and all guided by the one mother-goddess, Her Majesty, the Goddess of Wisdom.

She, who's words were soft as silk and still cut like a dagger, gave her brothers and sisters their titles and duties and let them go about their way. She stayed in her temple above them all, tucked away in the quiet libraries of all collected knowledge, writing in her scrolls and painting her murals. The gods organized themselves well and soon, a select few had collected into a celestial republic

 

The game of mimicry continued – the humans did the same. Peace, once so common, became a temporary gift. Given enough time and energy, humans will create mayhem the size of the titans themselves.

 

And so they did – a battle after skirmish after fight, until a war to end all wars rose above them. A conflict between the cities that turned into a war between the gods, all started by the idle tongue of a foolish young prince. He, who soon lost his head in the bloody fray, insulted the goddesses three – she who was filled with mercy, she who kept the hearth a-lit, and she who spurned the hearts of men into battle – by making a shallow choice of beauty. Turned against one another so quickly, the goddesses feuded, filling the hearts of their chosen people with bitterness. A foolish war broke out that would destroy the once crown-jewel of the states and leave the others scavenging to pick up the pieces, as the gods sat back and licked their wounds.

 

This is where our story begins.

 

~*~

 

 

In the scheme of things, Ilios isn't a very big city – it's more of a town, really.

 

But to the people of Ilios, their town was their world.

 

They had survived the Great War with very little collateral damage, one of the rare cities to be so lucky. A handful of their soldiers dead, some damage on the coast, but the Ilios herself was relatively unharmed. Life returned to normal fairly quickly. Sure, some of their sister-cities had taken a serious blow, but Ilios stood firm, the pearl of the ocean town looking towards the sea with a proud zeal.

The lord that lived there, a proud man under the House of Morrison, had headed a fleet into the war with his meager troops in support of the country of Gibraltar. He returned, scared and older, but victorious. It was a fact he almost seemed to gloat in.

Well, _seemed_ in a very absolutely _, consistently, non-stop_ kind of way.

 

 

(Let it be known that the House of Morrison, for all the good they do, has one _major_ flaw – their mouthes)

 

Which started the whole problem in the first place – after a night of indulgence (one of many, we are loath to say), Lord Morrison stumbled through the town with his fellow senators, proclaiming his family the richest amongst the countries, his countryside the most fruitful, his children the most talented. He was blessed by the gods, he slurred to anyone who would listen, why _else_ would he have come back from the war? Why else would Ilios be the town to pull their shattered country back together? It would be _his_ wealth that would spurn the other lords and ladies into action, it would be _his_ wheat that would bake the bread of the poor and destitute. It would be _his_ children that would build a new world on the wreckage of the old.

“Not Gibraltar!” He sang at the fountain in the center of town, his toga coated in mead, “Not the City in the Oasis! _Ilios_!”

His senators crowded around him and cheered; one suggested wine, the other sent a servant for more and the display got even worse.

 

“The gods thought they could destroy us, but we survived!” The Lord Morrison sputtered, wine splattering down his front, “Raise a glass to their failure, my friends!”

 

On-lookers would report the Lord Morrison would make a number of (fairly gratuitous) claims that night, including (but not excluding) comparing his people to the industrious cherubs, his fields to the forest of the celestials and his senators to the congress of the gods.

He slurred to every passer-by: “My _son_ would put Her Majesty of Mercy, in her beauty to shame! Compared to him, Our Most Glorious is a _farm girl_.”

 

Grandious as they were, not all of his claims were entirely wrong – the people of Ilios were well known for being hardworking and friendly and the town's congress had made fairly well thought-out decisions in the time of war, decisions that had tempered fate in their favor. Ilios wheat was bountiful, to say the least – ships filled to the brim with grain and corn and fresh produce left the harbor daily. And the children of the Morrison household really _were_ something to behold His eldest daughter had long ringlets of spun gold and a keen tongue, his middle son had eyes as blue as the sea and the aim of a true marksmen.

 

But his youngest?

 

Oh...well _that_ was a handsome young man. Fair, young skin dotted with soft freckles, eyes like crystals, hair so blond it was nearly platinum. His voice was as soothing as a coming storm, his body slender and sculpted like the finest marble...it was a beauty that people came far and wide to see, to study, to _touch_.

Even in his youth, citizens would walk by and talk amongst themselves, _A handsome one, what a beauty_.

The admiration grew as he became a young man – the royal soothsayer had suggested to the Lord Morrison that his son take to wearing veils when out amongst the commoners (a suggestion that would quickly followed). People who would once give him a passing glance now stopped and watched him walk by; more than once, a person would bow before him and proclaim his majesty, as if they were worshiping in the temples.

The citizens loved him, adored him in a way they had once loved their patron goddess.

 

It didn't take long for her to notice.

 

 

 

~*~

 

“A farm-girl, eh?”

 

Her hands shake, nails cracking into the crystal globe. In the darkness of her chambers, Mercy lets his hair flow free across her shoulders, wisps of spun gold whipping about her. She has thick skin – she _has_ to. A lesser creature couldn't do what she does, caring for the sick, the crippled, the wounded and dying; the goddess of medicine, of relief, of **mercy**.

It's a fitting title.

 

But here, in her dark, quiet chambers, she's just Angela. Somber, quiet, tired Angela.

 

Beauty's not that important in her world. Sure, it _feels_ good to look nice, but beautiful hands don't do much good when you've shoved them deep into the gaping gullet of a soldier.

 

(at least...at least that's what she thought)

 

 

Maybe that's why the comment stung so bad - “A farm girl”. A common, lowly peasant....

Was this what these people thought of her? As a _lesser_?

 

Angela places the globe down slowly, the temptation to dash the thing to pieces becoming overwhelming. She lays on her couch, listening to the winds that whistle outside her curtains. In the darkness, the ceiling plays tricks on her, warping shadows into beasts.

 

A farm girl.

 

She clutches her hand to the breast, letting the metallic taste wash over her tongue. It's not anger that begins to pulse beneath her fingertips, in the very root of his marrow – it's **rage**.

 

She would expect this behavior, this... _slander_ from a city not under her tutelage but Ilios was one of her patron cities. The rare, few cities that actually brought her _happiness_ after the nightmare that was the Great War and it's own leader would spit in her face and call her lowly.

It stings more than she's willing to admit.

 

There's a great shame that comes with being one of the three goddess responsible for the Horrible War. A niggling kind of burn that never seems to go away. The nail digs into her side one too many times.

Her rage takes shape within her, a burning ball in the pit of her belly. She sits up, brushing her hair down and standing from his couch. With a whisper, Angela calls her cherubs to her side.

 

“Tell my brother I'm paying him a visit,” She mutters, picking up the crystal globe and looking into it. The Lord Morrison is being escorted home by a young man with white-blonde hair – his tunic is covered in vomit, “Tell him I would like to cash in that favor he owes me.”

 

The cherubs float away quickly. Angela pulls on her cloak and throws the globe as hard as she can against her chamber walls.

It shatters to pieces.

 

~*~

 

 

The kingdom of the Gods rests in the city at the top of the White Mountains. And it's here that the gods create their home as they see fit – a vast paradise of environments the celestials have hand made. The road that stretches between each individual temple is paved with white marble and a river runs through it all, the crystal clear water cool and sweet.

It is night as she storms to her brother's temple, a garden house with agar walls and turquoise tiles – the smell of petrichor caresses her nose as flings the door open.

The pluck of a kayagum echoes against the lantern lit walls, a soft, sweet voice following each note. Angela lays her saddles at the door; soft grass tickles her toes as she walks through the halls, flowers turning their heads to watch her.

 

His sprites sing in his atrium, curled at the edge of his fountain – the startle when they see her walk in and quickly stand, bowing in reverence.

“We weren't expecting you so soon,” The first sprite says, rushing over to take her cloak as the second quickly moves the kayagum aside.

“That doesn't matter – where is my brother?” She snaps – they pale at the tone in her voice and quickly lead her towards a doorway where a thin curtain flaps in the night breeze.

“Would you like tea?” The second sprite says weakly, “Coffee? Wat-”

“No.” Angela interrupts her, pushing past, “I would like privacy. We're not to be disturbed.”

The sprites open the curtain for her, bowing once again with a quiet _yes ma'am_. They close the curtain and take their place at the doorway.

 

~*~

“Gabriel! Gabriel where are you?!”

 

Angela pushes a ferns leaves, nearly tripping over a thick ivy vine. She huffs in frustration, yanking a twig from her (already fairly messy) hair, “Don't you _ever_ prune this place?!”

“No,” A voice to her left says loftily, “Normally, that would keep people from bothering me.”

Angela pushes her way past the branches – her brother stands in the small clearing, his flowers and plants all turned towards him affectionately.

She eyes the ceiling, where the glass dome shines with unfiltered moonlight. The grotto that is Gabriel's home is really very lovely in the nighttime – fireflies flutter about happily, moths of all sizes and shapes land peacefully upon her shoulders. There is a breeze within the grotto, making the entire area pleasantly cool (whether this is created by Gabriel or all natural is beyond her)

Angela sits on a fallen log and watches Gabriel work – he's standing at one of his beloved willows, snipping dead leaves from the orchids that have begun their strenuous climb to the top.

He doesn't properly great her, nor stop what he's doing. However, honeysuckle vines begin to creep by her leg, flowers turned upwards. She plucks one and quickly dabs the nectar onto her tongue – it's wonderfully sleep.

 

“Out of all the people, I really didn't expect this from you, Angela.”

 

She frowns, tossing the flower away and resting her arms on her knees, “You got my message.”

“Yup.” He snips another leaf, settling it in a basket beside him. They'll be chopped up and used as fertilizer for the next plant – the circle of life continues, “And I'm not doing it.”

“Gabriel-”

“You realize what you're asking me to do, right?” He turns slightly, pinning her with a tired glare, “Amelie trusted me with her tools, and you're asking me to go against _everything_ she said. Sorry, but you'd best find someone else for your dirty work.”

 

Gabriel's home is in full bloom now, but it won't last long – the cusp of autumn in upon them. Soon, the house will be filled with orange and yellows, sprinklings of red, before everything settles down for it's long, winter sleep. Fragrant marigolds will litter the paths.

He'll keep hollies soon. Holly and pines and the house will smell like the coming of the new year.

Angela plucks another honeysuckle, turning it to look at the nectar that bubbles to the top

“I know I'm asking a lot. More than I should.” She doesn't have the gut to eat – everything tastes sour. She tosses the flower away (and tries to avoid the heartbroken way the flowers turn towards the ground), “Gabriel, you have to understand-”

“One of the humans under your care called you a mean name. That's what it boils down to, Ang.”

“Don't over simplify. It's more than that.” She stands from the log, crossing her arms, “He disrespected my authority. You of all people should understand how that feels!”

 

Gabriel doesn't respond immediately, engrossed in his work.

He does, to an extent. Gabriel was one of the rare gods that stayed as neutral as possible during the war but that doesn't mean he had no stake in it. After all, his only patron city had burned to the ground.

They cursed him as he tried to save it from the flames – the soothsayers called for the downfall of the gods, the royal family spat on his offerings, the people called for other gods but him and sometimes, in the dead of night, all Gabriel can feel in the lap of flames on his skin...

His sheers slip and he cuts a healthy leaf. Gabriel hisses, quickly catching the leaf and tossing the sheers away.

 

“Angela, _let it go_. It's not worth getting worked up over.” He hurries to his workbench, the fragile leaf in hand. A soft cloth is laid on the bench-front along with a glass jar and clean forceps. He grabs up the glass jar and cups his hand. What looks like golden honey pours from it, forming an almost perfect bubble around the leaf, “If we got upset every time a human said something unkind, we'd never have a moment of peace. You know that.”

“I told you it's not that simple.”

“It is, actually.” the bubble of honey quivers slightly, healing the cut ends of the leaf. He heaves a sigh and plucks up the forceps, turning back to the vine.

 

He didn't expect Angela to be right next to him – nor did he expect her eyes to be brimming with tears. He jumps, quickly catching the honey-bubble before it plops onto the ground.

 

“Whoa...whoa, _Angela-_ ”

“I scarified so _much_ for that stupid city,” Angela sniffles as Gabriel sets the bubble onto his workbench and takes her shoulders in hand, “Don't you know that? Ilios is the _one_ city that I loved that isn't still rebuilding! I felt my cities, my people _burn_ around me, and that was the only city that I kept safe. I made sure they wouldn't be harmed, I tried to keep their people well, and instead of thanking me, he calls me a _peasant_.”

“It was just an _accident_ , you don't really think they think that, do you?”

Angela wipes away a tear angrily, “How am I supposed to know?! Do you know what the other royal families called me as their cities were torn down? _Witch_. _Demon_ – it wasn't even my fault, I did everything I _could_ and they still cursed me!”

Gabriel pulls her into his chest, pressing a soft kiss onto the top of her head. Her shoulders shake as she sobs angrily, “Angela, they're scared, dumb humans – they didn't mean any of that, and neither does this one.”

Angela sniffles, fat tears slipping down her cheeks. She tucks her hands into Gabriel's robes, rubbing her face into his chest.

“It's not about mean names and getting revenge,” She warbles, “It's about telling them what _is_ and _isn't_ right. About giving them a _little_ bit of humility, because apparently, I've failed to do that.”

She stands back, looking up at him. Her hands untangle from his robes to cup his face.

He winces – his wounds are still fresh and painful. Her thumb runs across the once smooth skin, across every tear, tracing the blackened flesh. Black steam rises from the exposed flesh.

“They hurt you. They hurt _me_. They don't understand how lucky they actually are, because we've allowed them to disrespect us.”

His hands mimic hers, a thumb brushing away a stray tear, “Please.... _please_ , Gabriel. I don't have anyone else I trust....do this for me, just do this _one thing_ for me and I won't ask you for another thing.”

“I think we both know that's not true, Ang.”

 

Angela laughs, pulling back to wipe her face clean. She stands on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

“So you'll do it?”

Gabriel huffs, turning back to the honey-bubble, “Yeah. I'll do it – but this is a one time thing, Ang. I hit the kid and then I'm out – understand?”

“Understood.”

 

He places the bubble against the snipped stem. The bubble pops, forming around the leaf – stems mesh perfectly, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place

 

~*~

 

In the kingdom of the gods, there are two pools. One with bitter water and one with sweet.

 

There was a time they were guarded and cultivated by the Goddess of Love and Lust – after the war, she abdicated her position and left to wander the underworld to mourn her long lost husband.

And so, when the people pray to the god of nature and life, they also find themselves praying to the god of love. What was once her quiver is now his, fitted for his rough hands, and what was once her waters is now his domain.

In the dark time where the moon has just set and the sun begins it's arduous rise, Gabriel fills two flasks – one with the sweet water and one with the bitter. He straps the flasks to his belt, her soft arrows to his back and looks down amongst the still slumbering mortals.

He begins the search for his prey.

 

~*~

 

Time has distorted the names of the people of the past. Language has changed and so translation changes with it – it goes without saying that the House of Morrison probably went by a very different name in the ancients times and this is just how we say it now.

 

For all intents and purposes, the youngest was called John.

 

Within the family, they called him Jack.

 

He wasn't the smartest boy (his sister took that title) and not the strongest (that was his brother's) but he was the bravest. While his sister cared for the household and his brother held the beaches with the remainder of the army, Jack braved the sea with his father and fought alongside him with the preliminary forces. Even in the brief battles that Ilios participated in, he took to danger head on, almost foolishly sprinting into the heart of battle.

There was very little that scared Jack – not the bite of iron, the lick of fire, the roar of the storm.

 

But this was like _none_ of those things.

 

It's an unfortunate product of his birth – he's taken down giants of men, stared death in the face and now that it's all done and over with, his responsibility is being quiet and demure to the public. His brother and sister are both married with children of their own – now it's Jack's turn.

His parents have as many grandchildren as they want, as they _need_ – the Morrison name will live on. Now it's all about giving Jack away like a present – such is the role of the youngest.

It's a sad, but true, fact – the moment his parents find a partnership with one of the neighboring cities that benefits Ilios, he'll be tossed to them like meat to a dog.

 

Formality has never been his strong suit – he's actually about as graceful as a duck on land. Jack would rather work in his garden then have to speak to the public, but this is his job now. He's part of the public face of the House of Morrison, and so it falls upon him to apologize for his father's behavior and pay for the damages.

He's fortunate to be well-liked in town – the barkeep laughs off the tab (“Your father was just having fun!”) and the clay-worker (who's wheelbarrow he'd fallen asleep on and promptly ruined) handed him an red earthen pot when he was finished paying for the broken items (“For your mother! She said she'd wanted me to hold the next one for her.” She waved away his money, “By the gods, she deserves it”)

 

The city wakes slowly, sleepily blinking their eyes into the sun. The people mill through the street, some going to their jobs, other getting their shopping done – they all nod their heads and smile as Jack walks by.

The Morrison family has done a lot of good in Ilios. Even when the Elder Morrison behaves badly (as has become the norm after the war), there is no debate where his heart truly lies.

Jack's stopped every few steps to talk to the people walking by. They ask their normal questions ( _When is your sister-in-law due? Will the Master join the hunt this year? What's the Mistress bringing back from Oasis_?). Talking to people who treat him like he's a normal human being, not this beautiful angel, not a title...it feels nice.

 

They all have their roles to play: The Master Morrison leads the town. The Mistress Morrison is the trendsetter amongst Ilios' women, wearing only the latests fashions and speaking of only the highest bourgeoisie, the eldest Morrison sister holds frequent salons to stir the town's intellect, the Morrison son leads Ilios' coast guard and organizes the autumn hunt.

Jack's job is to look pretty, make friends among the people and stay quiet when his parents eventually hand him off to his rich Lord in a marriage that is 100% for political gain.

 

To a slim margin, he's accepted this as his end goal.

 

(not really)

 

 

The woman who runs the flower cart waves him over and begins to chide him about marriage again. She sticks trimmed white roses behind his ears and tells him about the girl down the street, fresh into womanhood and ready to take a husband.

“A boy just moved into town too, if you're interested in that.” She leans against her cart, taking a deep breath. She's a little grey-haired lady that's been selling her flowers since Jack was a little boy – her ancient donkey chuffs at him when he leans his forehead down against it's broad nose.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Jack laughs when Mulberry mouths at the front of his toga – he can smell the apple Jack's got hidden in there, “You got daisy's in!”

“Don't avoid the question,” She chuckles as he leans down to sniff at the petals – they're speckled red, little yellow stems bursting from the center, “You're getting to that age, it's something you need to think about.”

“Are any of these in blue?” he asks.

“You're handsome, you're charming-”

“Those two are the same thing,” He plucks the bundle up and drops his coins into her outstretched hand, “I'm just not interested in it right now. If you get any in blue, will you hold them for me?”

“Yes, yes,” The flower-woman waves him off, hiding the smile behind her veil – Jack's not stupid, the next time he visits her, she'll have another person lined up for him to sample. He'll tell her the same thing - “Not now”

He tosses Mulberry his apple before he takes his leave – the donkey knickers in delight and chomps down.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Jack has a routine – stop at the town center to pick up the flower-woman's latest bunch, walk to the fish market to see how the morning's catch was and then travel the remainder of the town to see where his help can benefit most. Nothing much ever changes around the town.

If he's lucky, he spends his morning in town and his afternoons in his garden house, tending to the fruit-trees and creeping vines there.

If he's unlucky, he'll be roped into the day-to-day chores of the Mistress Morrison.

 

There was a time where his time would be taken up by his studies – they've reached a hiatus, until he's “married away.” It's up to his future spouse to decide if he would continue his studies or if he'll just have to settle with what he knows.

When he was a kid, Jack would do everything he could to get out of his lessons – now he's wishes he could take them again.

 

(In a weird way, they continue. They've morphed into lessons about keeping an ordered household, given by the Mistress and her many, many attendants).

 

Jack takes the steps down to the wharf two at a time, the flowers tucked into the crook of his hand. Sunlight glitters from the ocean's blue surface – from where he stands, the sea looks rough this morning. White crests move along the ocean's surface, the seagulls cry echoing across the sky.

He looks out into the ocean – sometimes he daydreams about stealing a boat and sailing away into the endless blue.

What would he find out there? His brief time away from the town was on the beaches of Gibraltar, but there had to be more than fire and soot. He'd seen it on the murals in the temples, on the paintings that graced his family's walls – deep green forests, cities built from the golden sand, flat plains stretching out as far as the eye can see and filled with flowering trees.

When he was a boy, he would ride behind with his Father to the farms that settled at the edge of Ilios and work in those lucious fields. It was hard work, it was sometimes painful work, but it was _good_ work.

And then, suddenly, he was thrust into the world of adulthood and forced into the tight box that was Formality.

Although his cage is gilded, it is still a cage.

 

~*~

 

“No fish?”

“None.” The sailor frowns, leaning over the edge of the boat, “Haven't been fish for _days_.”

Jack frowns, worrying his lip, “Have you tried fishing on the east side? The west?”

“ _And_ the north, hell, we've even pushed our boats to they very edge of our waters.”

Another sailor shakes his head, “Every time we try to go further, the water's too choppy. Ain't never seen anything like it, this ain't the season for the monsoons.”

Jack hums, tapping a foot thoughtfully. Monsoon season wasn't for another three months – the waters should be perfect for fishing right now.

“Anything you could suggest, we'd love to hear Jack.” The captain says – it's easy to tell that he's exasperated. No fish means no fish at market – no money in their pockets and no meat for the citizens. Fish play such a crucial role in the normal Ilios diet, having them go missing is a _big_ problem.

 

“Have you all tried new bait?”

“Yeah – but maybe we could switch it up again?” The captain scratches his beard.

“Do that – I'll let my father know, maybe he knows what's going on.” Jack says sheepishly, “Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

The captain laughs it off, waving, “Don't you worry, Jack – we'll try switching the bait again. Stop by tomorrow, maybe we'll be lucky”

The sailors say their goodbyes, pulling their ropes and unfurling the sails.

Jack watches as the boat begins to pull away from the harbor – the sea shanties will start soon as the oars pull and the wind pushes the boat along, spurning the sailors on.

 

He turns back up the path and begins to walk towards the center of the city – it just doesn't make sense, where would the fish be?

 

~*~

 

“This is _it?”_

 _“_ That's it.” The grocer shakes his head, his arms akimbo. Jack looks over the meager wares - wrinkled apples and withered grapes, mushy greens and leafs, dehydrated stalks of corn, “I just don't understand, yesterday everything seemed normal.”

“When we went picking it looked like the locust had come back into town,” Continues a farmer, unloading his cart – two measly bushels of grains, the wheat is limp and frail looking, “Practically all my trees have come down with blight...I just don't get it.”

“Blight?” Jack frowned, “How sick have they been?”

“Not at _all_.” The farmer insists, “It appeared overnight.”

“Oh c'mon, blight can-” The grocer starts, as he arranges the meager wares.

“It appeared overnight.” The farmer stresses, an almost crazed look in his eye, “I keep my trees healthy, I ain't had a blight outbreak in over twenty years.”

 

The farmer and grocer continue to bicker as Jack looks over the stalks – they're not just frail, they're _diseased_ , a dusty film covering their surface. He plucks one stalk up, grimacing as it practically falls apart in his hands.

“Go to the temple,” Jack says quietly, looking over the disintegrated plant. He tosses the stalk away, wiping the grit from his fingers on the hem of his robes. The men quiet quickly, “Get one of the priestesses to bless the water you're using. Maybe you've had blight all along, maybe it did appear overnight, but you're going to need the Goddess' graces for this.”

The farmer nods, pulling on his donkey's reigns. Jack plucks the crispest apple from the cart and gives his coins to the grocer.

 

~*~

 

The town looks _off_ today.

 

Rust curls on the sides of the white houses, the plants in the window sills are beginning to curl. The cats (normally friendly creatures who patron the warf and come mewling to people for attention) all hiss and scurry away when approached.

 

He makes his normal stops – nothing seems to be going right. The smithee can't get his furnace to light, the seamstress needles have all bent, the librarian was fending off moths left and right. He gives what advice he can and they all appreciate it, but it's bandaids on open wounds.

 

Jack clutches his flowers closer, nails biting into their sensitive flesh. It makes no sense, why would everything in the town just stop working? If he didn't know better...

 

“Oh!”

A voice breaks Jack from his reprieve – he startles, nearly dropping his packages. Internally, he curses – he's strayed too close to the temple again. An old woman stumbles toward him, her hands pressed against her mouth.

“Oh, angel!” She begins to kneel, reaching for the hem of his stola, “Oh _bless me_!”

Jack tries to shoo her away, his cheeks flushing red – of all the days to walk out without his veil...

“No-No I'm sorry, I'm no-”

She ignores him, beginning to croon her preyers. A small crowd from the temple follows her, all beginning to croon the same requests – _bless us, bless us with health, angel, bless us with fortune and love_.

One of them grabs onto the hem and yanks – Jack yanks back just as hard and stumbles into a run, clutching his packages to his chest.

It's not the first time he's had to flee the temple – most days, he's smart enough to avoid it all together, only going to worship late at night. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he took the main path to the estate and stumbled right into the proverbial lion's den.

 

Wearing the veil has helped considerably; he hides his face whenever the priestess walk past, carefully avoids anything that seems like worship but it still happens more times than he would like – they call to him for guidance when they should call to the very deity that graced them with life.

 

Looking behind him, he sees the priestesses leading the people back into the temple. He's lucky, they never come to the estate to scold him for interrupting the parishioners – even he realizes it's not his fault.

They understood – it had started fairly early in his life, after all. The Goddess' blessing towards the Morrison family had given them a son of almost perfect beauty, that's nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to be celebrated and rejoiced -.it would make sense that he would look like one of her Messengers. It's not like he likes the attention – frankly, he hates it. It feels like the ultimate blasphemy, having to guide (or sometimes order) them back into the temple. It's the height of humiliation.

 

 

He leaps the fence onto the estate and it's only then that he stops, leaning against a tree. The tender stems of the flowers have bruised on his crushing hold. He hisses, pulling the flowers away from him to examine them.

They're a little worse for wear, but they'll be fine. A little plant food, some sunshine, he may be able to coax them into sprouting.

 

Jack pulls them back into his chest and begins the trek to the villa.

 

~*~  
  


Morrison Villa is a sprawling estate, filled with trees and flowers. A barn to hold the livestock, a kennel for the hunting dogs, a spring for bathing.

To Jack, it's his sanctuary.

 

He takes a quick detour to the stables, carefully avoiding the servants and the stablehands. Jack sneaks to the furthermost stall, behind the door and directly to his best friend.

 

The horse snorts in delight when he enters, immediately stomping towards him and nuzzling his cheek.

“Hey, _hey_ – don't be pushy.” Jack laughs quietly, scratching behind her ear, “And _no_ , these are _not_ for you, Ovid.”

He pulls the flowers away as she tries to chomp down on them, “Be good, or you don't get the present I brought you.”

 

Ovid nickers, stomping a foot and nodding her head. Her ears flick happily. Jack flops onto a clean pile of hay – the stablehands have come by and cleaned her stall before Jack could get to her.

 

It's not considered proper for a young man of prestige to clean his own horse's stall, but it's never bothered Jack that much. He remembers mucking when he was a kid, beside his brother and father with the two horses they had – a dapple mare and her spotted foal.

 

The spotted foal isn't a foal anymore, but she's still Jack's favorite. Her stall is his home away from home, the tiny room packed with all of his comfort items – his favorite sandals, his well-warn saddle back, his prized bow-and-arrow hung on the wall far enough away that Ovid can't pull them down. She protects his things, sleeping on them for comoft.

He produces the apple from the pouch on his robe and tosses it – she catches it midair, happily munching away.

“You glut.” He laughs, leaning against the barns walls – she pays him no mind.

 

Jack takes the stems of the flowers and starting to braid them together, “The fish are gone. The fishermen said they hadn't seen them for a while.”

Ovid snorts, chomping on the last half of the apple. Her ear swivels towards him.

“Same thing with the grocer – all of his produce was just...mush.” he sticks his tongue out, working his fingers in the delicate knots. Ovid clops to him, flopping down and laying her head against his thigh.

“They said it just started – seems weird, doesn't it?” He smiles at her, running a hand over her mane. Her neck twitches at his touch.

There's a window beside the pile of hay he sits on – tension ebbs from his muscles – a soft wind whistles through the trees. He can smell the ocean, the salty tang that tingles his tongue.

Jack looks out onto the morning, the clouds high and fluffy against a perfectly blue sky. There's a tinge of grey in the clouds – they'll have rain soon, he can smell it in the salty air. Good, Jack thinks. Maybe rain will wash away whatever going on in town.

 

“Maybe it's a sign...” He says quietly, his fingers still braiding the flowers together. He's almost finished with the crown, tying the final flower on, “We always said we'd run away when we got a chance...maybe the Goddess is telling us now's the time.”

Ovid blinks and huffs again.

“I don't know what stops me. It wouldn't be too hard to buy a boat-”

She nickers.

“Yes, yes, a boat that could hold you too.” He corrects, placing the crown on her head and adjusting her ears, “A few days of previsions, some fresh water, a map...we'd be out of here in no time. I wonder where we'd go...”

 

She flicks her tail against the ground, nuzzling closer. Jack scratches her cheek and watches a blackbird soar through the sky, lighter than air itself.

Would it be nice to fly like that, he thinks, watching as the bird dips and dives. To just up and leave whenever he wanted – not confined by tradition and title and responsibility just....totally free.

 

They sit like that for quite some time – his leg is fast asleep, but Ovid's such a peaceful sleeper, he can't bear to wake her.

 

~*~

 

Ovid hears the raucous before Jack does – her head shoots up, giving a short whiney.

“What is it?” He asks, leaning forward. His answer is quickly answered.

 

“Jack? Jack!”

“I'm here,” He says, sitting up proper, “What is it Leslie?”

 

He can hear his sister storming towards him. She slams her hands on the stall's door.

“Where have you been?? We've been looking everywhere for you!”

Leslie is taller than him, slimmer. Golden hair always pulled up in a messy bun and with a tongue sharper than a sword – out of all the Morrison children, she's the leader.

She was the first married off, to a tradesman from the far east. A good man who made good money and took care of her well. He traveled constantly and so Leslie lived on the Morrison Villa with her two children.

 

“What's going on?” Jack stands as Ovid gets to her hooves, whinnying in delight. Next to Jack, Leslie is her favorite person.

“What do you _mean_ , “what's going on”?!” She snaps, “Father has his luncheon with the senators today! They're just starting to sit down to eat, _you_ are supposed to be entertaining!”

Jack huffs, brushing stray bits of straw from his robes. Ovid leans over the stall door for pets – Leslie scratches her moist nose fondly, “For real? Again? Didn't they do this last week?”

“And the week before that, and the week before that.” Leslie quirks an eyebrow, “And probably the week before that - How in the world did you forget?”

Jack shrugs, “How long is it going to last this time?”

“How long do they ever last? The senators won't be leaving until tomorrow, if we're so lucky. Malcom's still hasn't slaughtered the hog for dinner, Mother's gone mad. So can you please?”

“All right, all right. Though, I don't know what he even wants, I just sit there.”

“You're the eye-candy.” Leslie teases, opening the stall door for him, “Remember that senator from The City of Oasis? Do you know how many times he asked Father how much you cost?”

Leslie closes the stall door behind him and presses a soft kiss to Ovid's nose – and then she's off, walking towards the house. Jack waves to Ovid and is fast on her heels, struggling to keep up.

“I'm surprised he didn't sell me off.” He grumbles, plucking a stray strand of hay from his collar.

“He probably would have if the price was higher.” Leslie shrugs, “Count your blessings Jack, apparently, the guy's a true bore. You'd probably die from it within a week.”

 

Ovid huffs and stamps her hooves – they'll be back in the evening with scraps specially for her, she knows that. But she never likes to alone. Her ears prick forward, patiently awaiting Jack's return.

The blackbird lands on the barn's roof, watching the two with careful eyes.

 

~*~

 

Morrison Villa is built similar to the classical rustica style – a massive complex with a giant atrium in the center. It housed the main family, the cousins that would stop by periodically and the servants that kept the place in ship shape. Ironically, it was considered one of the smaller royal estates.

 

They enter through the backdoor into the kitchen – the smell of roasted chicken, baking bread, freshly cut greens makes Jack's mouth water. In the center he can see his mother conducting the staff like an orchestra, pointing this way and that, taste testing every dish that leaves the door and ensuring everyone looks prim and proper.

Mistress Morrison runs the Villa household with an iron fist. She does very well considering the circumstances – she was engaged to Master Morrison at a fairly young age and took to her role quickly. Mistress Morrison is unafraid to get mouthy in a world that really wasn't built for her – she's made her own platform in the town and, subsequently, in the capital her husband as built.

She frowns at them when they enter the kitchen.

“I found him,” Leslie says, ducking under a pair of servants carrying a tray of a full-sized peacock made from watermelon and sugar cane, “He was hanging out with Ovid again.”

“Of course you were.” Mother chides, “What am I going to do with you, you smell like a barn.”

“Sorry.” Jack says sheepishly, “I can go change.”

“Quickly. You know how impatient your father is.”

 

A young man sits on the counter beside her, chomping at a string of grapes. Unlike his sibling, his hair is curly and wild, his beard full. He kicks his legs, trying to snag morsels from every plate that comes by.

“Yeah – no man wants a horse for a wife.” He gives a sardonic laugh; Mother snatches the grapes from his hands, putting back on the tray they'd been sitting on. She snatches Jack by the shoulders and tilts his head down, plucking bits of grass and hay from his hair

“Aren't you supposed to be _cooking_ , Mal?” Jack grumbles, wincing when she gets a few too many strands of hair with the next pluck.

“Yes he is and if that hog isn't slaughtered and cut in the next thirty minutes, we'll be using your hide as a replacement.”

 

(She leans to Jack's ear and whispers, “We may be rid of his horrible wife then.”

Jack can't hold back a chuckle.)

 

Malcom groans and hops down from the counter.

“ _Fine_.” He trots out of the kitchen, off to the livestock, off to slay the fattest hog they have, “Better than being at this bore of a party anyway.”

Leslie plucks the last of the hay from Jack's hair and follows behind Mother to begin serving wine. Jack quickly makes his way to his room to change.

 

~*~

 

It only takes a few moments (five of which are spent shoo-ing away Mother's aids and assistants – he can dress himself, thank you very much) but he quickly works his way into his best blue stola. He chews on his lip as he ties the robe together, brushing his hair back – when he returned from across the ocean, he'd found all of his togas and bracce gone and replaced with these too-long, too-heavy things.

His lot in life, Jack supposes - anything to make him seem smaller and gentler. He's probably very lucky – the librarian once showed him scrolls of people across the ocean that paint their eyes and lips in ink and rouge.

Jack's not sure he could do that every day.

 

He ties his sandals, slips on his finery. He owns a special veil for events, attached to a golden, woven crown of ivy. Perfectly white, barely translucent – Jack has to have help when he wears it, but he knows his house like the back of his hand.

Grandmother had given him a mirror when he was a boy – polished silver, the handle shaped like a lion's paw. He looks at himself...what he's _told_ is himself. The detached self, the self that conforms to his family's wishes. It's like looking at a different person, an entirely separate Jack...

 

He quickly puts the mirror down – looking too long into it's reflective surface just puts him into a bad mood.

 

~*~

 

There's a rambunctious cheer when he enters the dinning hall – the smell of wine is almost overwhelming. Jack has to hold his breath as he takes his place with his mother and sister, sitting in the center of the couches and tables so they can quickly refill drink and food. They hearth still isn't lit, so the room hasn't become sweltering with so many people.

 

His father, at the top couch, stands and embraces him, kissing the top of his head. There's not a lot of bad you can say about Master Morrison – he's a braggart, sure, and maybe a little _too_ interested in drink but he's a kind soul. A good soul. There's a lot of love in Jack's heart for his father.

 

Maybe that's what made the entire scene so...embarrassing to begin with. Before the war, they weren't these kinds of people – sure, there were parties every once in a while and well known men and women would stop by the house but more often than not, they would be in town, living a fairly average life.

Now it's seems like Master Morrison is racing at a breakneck pace towards outward appearances of grand wealth. He was never a particularly modest man, but this is extreme, even for _him_.

“Here he is!” His father booms, slapping an arm around Jack. Jack is very grateful for the veil as his cheeks begin to heat, “My son! My celestial boy. Look at him, even The Goddess herself would feel inadequate next to him!”

There's another cheer, cups clinking together, laughter, and calls. But Jack can see the way the servants hide their faces, their grimaces. Even his mother frowns at the comment.

 

~*~

 

“Maybe it'll get better,” Jack thinks quietly, as he slaps away another hand tugging at his veil, “Maybe it will be quick”

 

~*~

 

It gets considerably worse.

~*~

 

Night falls. The storm comes with it, thundering into town. The servants have well prepared for the luncheon (now a dinner) but that doesn't make the pace any less chaotic.

They take turns, getting up to get more food, more drink, more bread and cheese (and just getting a chance to stretch their legs).

 

(“We should be happy.” Mistress Morrison wheezes at one point, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her back is close to giving out, the pain apparent on her face, “This could have been a formal party – at least it's just a few of his friends.)

 

Up and down, up and down. Stay quiet, stay still. Keep conversation with the men that speak to him, but don't have conversation with his mother or sister. Look interested at all the mind-numbing dull things the senators talk about and smile when they look his way.

Jack wonders if empresses and emperors ever get this bored.

 

He excuses himself to replenish their olive tray, carefully avoiding every wayward brush of the hand.

The kitchen is awash with people running back and forth, the stifling heat of the oven hitting the cool breeze of the rain – the kitchen is humid and uncomfortable and a welcome oasis of calm.

Jack tosses the leftover pits and stems into the garbage and begins to refill his tray, stretching out his back.

He almost misses the tiny meow.

 

His eyes catch on the tiny creature sitting at the doorway. It's tail curled around it's feet protectively, wide eyes watching every dish. It was a small thing, skinny, it's fur hanging off it's bones.

“Hey,” Jack frowns, putting the tray down and walking to the door. The cat doesn't move when he approaches, mewling, “You can't be here.”

 

It's ears flick twice and it meows again. It's got a distinct pattern, Jack notes as he stoops to pet the creature on the head. Black fur speckled with white snow. Amber eyes mixed with streaks of gold. It leans towards the hand that dwarfs his head.

“You can't be here.” Jack repeats, scratching the thing under the chin, “We don't feed strays. No scraps for you, kitten.”

 

He starts as his name is called – his sister stands at the doorway, yelling at him to “get his ass into gear”.

The cat is quickly forgotten.

 

That is, until he comes back into the kitchen, wiping wine from his stola. He curses, grabbing the first rag he can find and begins trying to blot the liquid off. The dark red stands out strong against the soft blue and he curses again – it's not that important, it's just a stola...but it was his _favorite_ stola.

It's raining harder now, a gentle rumble of thunder now a snarl. Lightning runs across the sky. His eyes dart towards the door once, catching on the cat.

The _drenched_ cat. It's starting to shiver, ears flopped over it's eyes.

 

“Why are you still here?” Jack asks, still trying to blot the stain from his clothes. He walks over, frowning down at the cat, “You can't come in, we don't have food for you. Go away.”

The cat whimpers, eyes closing miserably. The bitter cold chill whistles into the humid kitchen.

 

Jack stares at the cat. The cat looks at the ground, whiskers dripping.

Jack feels a headache coming on.

 

The cat makes a noise akin to a yelp as Jack snatches it up, bundling it into the front of his stola. Like a shot, he takes off running, snatching a roll from the counter before the servants can notice.

“This is so _stupid_ ,” Jack mutters, running through the halls to his room, “ _Stupid stupid stupid_.”

 

He slams his door behind him, dropping the (very confused) cat onto his bed. He makes a soft _murr_ , tilting it's head to the side.

“Look. Just... _look,_ okay.” He drops to his knees beside the bed, holding the roll out, “You're not supposed to be here, I'm not allowed to have like...you know, _pets_ , but you can stay the night. You just have to promise to stay here and not get in trouble.”

The cat considers the bread roll, sniffing it closely. It takes a tentative bite.

“ _Promise_ okay?”

The cat grabs the rolls between it's front tow paws, snatching it forward. It meows loudly, devouring the sweet roll.

“I'll take that as a promise.” He throws off the stola, quickly redressing in a clean one, “I'll be back in a few hours, just...I don't know, _sleep_ , whatever cats do.”

 

~*~

 

“By the _gods_ , when is that meat going to be ready?!”

Jack can't help but think the same thing – Malcom had left _hours_ ago to slaughter the hog, it didn't take _that_ long to strip the meat! Of course Malcom would take his sweet time, he wasn't the one sitting on his knees watching on an empty stomach as others enjoyed the food.

If they're lucky, the senators would fall asleep after eating and they'd be able to take a rest.

Mistress Morrison stands and says she'll check on the hog's progress. She looks relieved. Jack and Leslie are left to fend for themselves, serving the rowdy guests and keeping them calm.

One of the men grabs Jack's arm and pulls him close, gesturing for another pour – Jack obeys, nodding only half heartedly as he slurs how nice Jack must be in bed.

“I wouldn't know.” He says, untangling himself and returning to his sister.

 

His knees ache. His back _hurts_ – all he wants to do is go to bed, but he's stuck playing host to drunk men hyped up on their own egos. For a moment, Jack thinks about the blackbird, soaring through the air, dipping and diving at it's heart content. What he would give to taste that freedom...

 

The door to the dinning chamber opens with a slam and Malcom walks ahead of the servants, ever the victorious.

“Gentlemen!” He proclaims, introducing his slain wares, “May I introduce the most high quality meat you've ever had the pleasure to taste!”

The guests cheer, the servants rush about towards the fire spit in the center of the room, tinder on hand.

 

Tradition in Ilios dictates that the main meal is cooked before the guests. The thick slabs make Jack's mouth water as he watches them being brought forth – wonderfully red meat with beautiful white marbling.

 

The tinder is set in the center, servants crowding with a flint and knife to start it...and start it

 

...and start it.

 

Mistress Morrison sits forward, beginning to frown. The servants continue to try to light the tinder to...nothing.

The raucous cheers die down until silence fills the room, watching as the now nervous servants try to light the pyre. Master Morrison stands, suddenly sober. He takes the flint from the servants and begins to try to light the pyre himself.

Mistress Morrison leans towards Leslie, whispers, “ _Go get the priestess_.”

 

Jack looks between them as Leslie runs off, pulling her shawl around her.

 

In Ilios, the hearth is the most important part of the house The Goddess dictated it so – to make a guest truly feel welcome in the home, let the host entertain them around the hearth. It was a sacred place to her – warmth brings health, after all.

The food is cooked there, the family gathers there, the children are educated there in the evenings. The hearth pulses heat into the entire house, centers the family.

When the hearth doesn't light, something has gone very, _very_ wrong.

Jack stands, walks beside his father, watches as he desperately tries to light the pyre.

His heart thunders in his chest. This is bad...this is so very, _very_ bad. If the pyre doesn't light...that means-

“Master!”

 

A servant bursts through the door, soaked to the bone. He's panting, a splatter of blood across his cheek.

Master Morrison snaps towards the servant, standing quickly.

“Sir!” The servant stumbles forward, “Sir, the dogs- _your_ dogs!”

 

“What about them?” Master Morrison, catches the servant as he begins to fall on his knees, “What's going on?!”

“They've got _rabid_! They've escaped, they're running wild!” He heaves, hands shaking.

 

It's like a switch is flipped – adrenaline rushes through Jack and it's like he's on the front lines again, giving orders to his soldiers. He bolts past his father, turning towards Malcom, “Keep everyone in here!”  
“Where you going? _Jack,_ where are you going?!” Malcom calls after him as Jack runs through the house. He pushes past frightened servants in the kitchen out onto the grounds. The quiet storm still thunders on as he runs out onto the grounds, running towards the barn. He can hear yells over the rain, the sharp, terrifying barks and howls of a pack run wild. The kennel door's slam against their hinges as the wind whips past, the chain nowhere to be found.

Servants are helping each other off the ground, more than a few sporting painful looking bites.

 

Jack bursts into the barn, running towards Ovid's stall – the horse whinnies as he enters, stamping her hooves. She can feel the excitement in the air.

He snatches up the hanging bow-and-arrow, throwing open Ovid's door. Jack doesn't put her saddle on, instead, leaping onto her back and grabbing her mane. She isn't shaken, crying out again as she gallops towards the door at his direction.

 

“Let's go, Ovid!” They race into the rain towards the sounds of chaos. Her hooves pound against the ground, kicking up clumps of grass.

“Where'd they go?!” He slows her near a dazed servant – they point south, and south they fly The dogs are running towards the fence, he realizes quickly, he has to be fast.

 

Lighting strikes across the sky, thunder booming through the air, so loud Jack can hear it in his chest. He kicks his heels against Ovid's flank and she lurches forward, running even faster.

 

They move in almost perfect fluidity – she was a clumsy foal, too small, a runt even by pony standards. He was just a child when they moved onto the Villa and Ovid had just been born – they grew together, learned together, rode together at their hearts desire. As the war rolled across the nations, he chose her as his steed and together they ran headlong into battle, unafraid of the clash of steel.

He can feel the powerful muscles beneath the skin, hear the beat of her heart – when was the last time they got to ride like this? He'd almost forgotten how it felt, the power, the speed.

The grounds flash by them – branches lick at his legs and his arms. Jack ignores the sting, hands still buried in Ovid's mane. She leaps over a fallen log, splattering mud everywhere which way.

 

Just up ahead he can see the pack running towards the gate – the guards have readied their spears, but there's only two of them – all of the other guards are at the house. A pack of skilled hunting hounds move like the sea – they would drown the solider's easily would take them easily, slam against the gate and flood the streets.

Jack clenches his thighs around Ovid's flank, steading himself on the racing horse. He grabs an arrow from his quiver – if he can take out the alpha, he could possibly stop the entire heard.

Ovid's quick, but the dogs are lower to the ground, more spry. She's racing towards them, but she's out of practice – they both are. She's about to lose stamina – he's only got one shot at taking down the dog.

Jack balances himself on the careening horse; his core aches. He's so close, _so close_ – one shot, he only has _one shot_. If he fails, the dogs will be in the town, running towards the people... Even in the dark and the rain, he can see the alpha's eyes shimmering in the darkness, wide and wild. There is no more dog left in that creature, no wolf either. Just _madness_.

He can see the shot now, the arrow in perfect alignment. The alpha howls, they're only a few steps to the gate. He has to take the shot, he doesn't have any time to waste.

He pulls the arrow back and lets it go.

 

The arrow flies true. With a sharp screech, the dog flies away, tumbling into the grass. Ovid bursts forward, ahead of the dog, quickly taking the place as the leader – she makes a sharp turn left, leading the hounds along the edge of the gates. Jack replaces the bow onto his back and grabs onto her mane once more, steering her into another left – the pack follows behind him dutifully, barking and howling at each other.

“Good girl!” He calls over the rain, “You did amazing – let's get them home.”

 

~*~

 

The dogs practically flop to the ground when they finally arrive at the barn's kennel. Two stand, panting, the others literally collapsing onto their sides, heaving, whimpering. Ovid snorts and shakes her head as Jack jumps down and runs to the dogs. They all wag their tails, crawling towards him for love and affection – whatever madness they had fallen under was gone.

A few bleeding nails, a bruised side or two, but the dogs all seem...fine. Healthy even. The servants take their collars and lead them back into their kennel, swarming around Jack to see if he's okay.

“That was brilliant!” One says, taking his bow from him, “You haven't lost your talent, have you?”

Jack says nothing, leaning against Ovid's side. It didn't make sense – Father cared for those dogs like they were his own children. He would have never let a rabid one amongst the flock and he certainly wouldn't have left the door to the kennels open so they could run amok.

He presses a hand against Ovid's chest and leads her back to the barn. She's panting but obviously happy, prancing beside him.

It just doesn't make sense, he thinks, guiding her into her stall, _It just doesn't make sense_.

 

His sandals are torn at the edges. There are marks on Ovid's flank – he'll take her down to the town doctor in the morning, see if he's accidentally hurt her. His fingers, his arms are numb, the stinging bite of cold seeping into his bones and there are lashes from the branches etched onto Jack's legs and arms .

The once quite storm seems so much less peaceful...

 

Ovid snorts, shaking her mane again. She pushes him with her nose, dark eyes boring into him.

“I'm okay. You?”

The horse whineys, pressing his nose against his chest. Jack sighs, leaning his nose against her snout, eyes slipping shut, “That was...that was really...something.”

 

 _Scary_ , he thinks. It was _scary_. Sure, he'd been on the hunt before, but he'd never seen the hound's eyes take on that kind of horrible gleam...Jack's not sure he ever wants to see it again.

“Thank you.” He breathes, running a hand over the short, bristly hair, “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

 

~*~

 

The servants are gone when he enters the house, his pace slow and careful. In fact, everyone is gone – he doesn't hear the chatter of guests, the clank of silverware.

He enters the dinning hall – it's empty, save for his family and a tall woman in dark green robes. The senators have all been escorted home.

 

“The man of the hour.” She says quietly, standing to greet him. The Morrisons flock to him as soon as he opens the door, Mother pulling him close to her breast.

“Don't you ever do that again!” She demands, pressing her lips against his forehead, “You should have let your father do that!”

“I'm proud of you son.” Master Morrison rumbles, placing a hand on his shoulder. His siblings push past to wrap their arms around him.

“You're freezing. Need a blanket?” Malcom asks softly, examining the red tinge his fingers have taken.

“Yes...yeah that would be really nice.” Jack smiles weakly as Leslie kisses his cheek.

 

“The priestess is here. She needs to talk to us.” Leslie whispers into his ear, clutching his hand close.

 

They walk together and take their places.

Her Lady, Orisa of The Goddess of Mercy stands at the mouth of the pyre, looking over the ruined scraps of tinder. She's a beautiful woman, skin dark and rich, eyes filled with a wisdom deeper than the ocean itself. Jack sees her at the temple during service, speaking to the crowds that could sooth a rampaging giant.

 

Jack bows before her, as is custom. She returns the bow, raising her hands for them all to sit before her. They've pulled a table away from one of the couches and set it up in front of the pyre. Her tools are laid before her, a bowl of clear rainwater is set in the center, branches still brimming with bright green olive leaves at her left.

“You have performed your duties bravely.” Orisa says quietly, “It is no wonder your father chose you to follow him into battle.”

 

Malcom returns with the towel, draping it over Jack's shoulders. He takes his gratefully, blotting out the water in his hair.

“The dogs were just...it was like something possessed them all, some sort of madness.” he says, fingers curling into the soft cloth, “But the first one...the alpha, he just looked...”

“Evil.” Mistress Morrison breathes, finishing his very thought, “My god, we've never had a dog go sick before. And with the pyre-”

“It's not just the pyre.” Jack worries his bottom lip, “Something's not _right_ – the fish are gone-”

“The fish?” Master Morrison frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “How? They've had a _boon_ for fish.”

“I know, but it's not just that – the wheat and the fruits...the walls of the houses, _everything_.” Jack looks to Orisa. Those dark, deep eyes, “You know what's going on, don't you? You _have_ to.”

 

Orisa says nothing at first. Instead she raises her hands again for quiet Slowly, methodically, she reaches down and takes an olive branch.

She plucks leaf after leaf, placing them gentle into the bowl. Her voice rises, croons a song that Jack doesn't understand the words to. Cold fills his belly, but it's not from the water, he can tell.

The priestess is working her magic.

 

A hand finds his – Leslie watches the soothsayer closely, but holds onto him. He squeezes back, tighter. He can't tell who's hand is shaking – hers or his.

The water seems to move on it's own, leaves swirling together gently. Her voice carries in the chamber, wrapping them all in cool serenity.

“What do you see?” Mistress Morrison says, leaning forward, “Orisa, what are the god's saying?”

 

Her voice reaches a high note, holding it, warbling. And then she stops, the noise echoing in the high ceilings. Orisa places her hands on either side of the bowl, looking deep into the water.

Her hair, in tight braids, unravel from their neat bun. They float around her, like vines in water. Her eyes, so deep, seem to glow in the low chamber's light. The hand in his own tightens, Leslie's nails biting into his skin.

 

 _“Oh gods of East and West, Goddess of the Seas, God of Life, and God of Death. Goddess that has protected this island, has brought us prosperity and joy. Speak so that we may hear, teach so that we may know, your glory and your majesty. Shape my lips to your words and let me proclaim your holy word_.”

 

Her head leans forward, eyes rolling to the back of her head. She takes a deep, shuttering breath, in, in, _in_...out, low and long.

 

Slowly, she folds her hands into his lap, sitting back on her knees. Her hair, still floating around her, ties back into it's neat bun. With a weak breath, she opens her eyes, hazy and almost distant looking.

 

“Lord Morrison,” She starts gingerly, not quite looking anyone in the face, “You've committed a grave error. I think Efi calls it “screwing the pooch”.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Master Morrison begins to stand.

“The gods have been angered.” Orisa continues, paling by the second, “You placed yourself above them, do you remember? When you compared your children to the celestials and proclaimed your son's beauty? Humans have no businesses in the arena of the gods, but you willingly stepped inside. They've called your bluff.”

Master Morrison sits, eyes wide. His jaw has gone slack.

“She has taken her blessing from Ilios.” Orisa continues, “For so long we have lived in her good graces...but now, she's turned her back on us all.”

 

She points to Jack

 

“My boy, you will have to pay his price.” She says quietly, “They've given your hand away, to one of their pet war beasts. In three moons, the beast will meet you at the summit of Mount Lijian – from there, I cannot say what will happen.”

 

A palpable silence fills the rooms – Orisa sighs and looks back to her leaves, “If you go, Ilios will prosper once more. The fish will return, the fields will bloom. If you don't-”

“If I don't, then we'll perish.” Jack finishes, his eyes slipping shut. He runs a hand through his hair.

He doesn't quite hear what happens next – his mother and brother begin to wail, his father and sister begin to shout and argue. The Lord Morrison proclaims to his children that he'll gear every soldier on the island, he'll hire any hero to slay the great beast.

In the chaos of it all, Jack's hands fall into his lap and stay limp. Tears well in the corner of his eyes...he doesn't want this, this wasn't...

Well. Maybe it was.

He'd longed for freedom, asked for it, begged for it even. And now, here it was, handed to him on a silver platter – his freedom, directly into the jaws of some horrible creature.

 

He jolts when he feels a soft hand on his shoulder. Orisa leans in close, a sad smile on her face.

“The leaves know,” She whispers in his ear, “As do I, but I cannot tell you your fate. You have nothing to fear.”  
She pulls back and takes both his hands into hers, squeezing reassuringly, “Trust yourself and the skills that you have learned. You'll know what to do when the time comes.”

 _Comes for what_? Jack wants to ask.

But he doesn't – he struggles to smile back at her.

 

She takes her leave from the family quietly, not bothering to address the arguing family.

 

~*~

 

He falls into bed face first. His entire body aches, skin itchy and uncomfortable.

 

All he wants to do is sleep...maybe he'd wake up and figure out this was all some sort of horrible nightmare. He'd bidden his family good night, waving away questions of “ _do you want to sleep with me_?”

Jack just wants to be alone now.

 

He waves his hand as he feels the paw touch his head.

 

“Okay, look.” he looks up at the pink nose sniffing at his face. The cat leans forward, giving the soft _murr_ sound as Jack frowned at him, “I just got some _really_ bad news – think you could give me some space for a minute?”

The can purrs and rubs it's face against's Jack's cheek.

“Guess not. And don't get pushy, of course I didn't forget.”

 

He pulls a slice of dried fish from his robes – the cat's tail flicks and it happily pounces on the morsel, purring as it eats.

Jack forces himself up, leaning back on his hands, “What am I even going to do with you? I can't take you with me...”

He stands, starting to undo the ties to his stola. It falls away easily – his skin, sticky under all the fabric, tingles with relief.

“I don't know what to do, cat. I mean...I guess I _do_.” He kicks the stola away and searches through his clothes, finding a large shirt. He slips into it eagerly, the soft fabric heavenly, “I just don't...it's not like I'm _afraid_ but who wants to marry a...”

He can't say it. He flops onto his bed, hands between his knees.

 

All it once it hits him – he has to marry a monster. A “war beast”, a pet of the gods...he would give anything to marry the boring Lord of the Oasis now or even one of Father's drunken friends. Hell, he would rather be forced into the priestesses' nunnery...anything but this.

“Damn it.” his hands cover his face, fat tears slipping through his fingers, “Damn it _all_. It's...It's just not fair.”

He sniffles, curling in on himself, “I didn't _ask_ to be born this way, I didn't ask for my Father to act like a complete _idiot_. Why am I getting punished for it?!”

In the dark and lonely cocoon of his room, he cries like a child, muffling his sobs through his palms. He's read the stories, hell, he knows the stories by heart – might as well slit his throat now and throw him to the wolves.

 

He's a boy, walking into the labyrinth without a ball of golden thread, off to the Minotaur.

 

“I don't want to!” He cries, shaking, “I don't want to go to some creature, I don't want to be some cow to be sold, I just want to be _left alone_! Why can I be left alone?!”

 

A head is pushed against his arm. Jack starts, blinking back red, watery eyes. The cat rubs against his arm, purring loudly. It stands on it's back legs and gently taps at Jack until Jack leans over and picks the thing up. The cat rubs it's head against Jack's chin, purring even louder.

 

Jack pulls the cat close as it purrs and rubs and begins to lick. He cries into it's soft fur.

“You stupid cat!” He blubbers, “Why did you have to come now...I can't take care of you when I'm being eaten, why didn't you come sooner?”

 

The cat tolerates being held. It continues to purr as Jack pulls his sheets aside and climbs inside them.

“Malcom will take care of you I guess,” He sighs shakily, “I'll leave him a note. His wife likes cats...you'll see.”

He looks down at the cat blearily, scratching behind it's ear. The cat's eyes close, lips pulling into a grin.

“She's like that – likes animals more than people. She'd spoil you rotten, cat.”

 

He laughs as the cat meows in delight.

 

“I can't keep calling you cat, cat. I mean, I guess I _can_ , but it doesn't seem very nice, does it?” He sighs, settling into the pillows, “I guess I ought to think of a name for you so Malcom can introduce you properly. Let's see...”

His bed sits beside the window – he looks out onto the cloudy moon, the rain finally starting to pass, “Dusty? Stormy?”

Jack shakes his head, “No, neither one of those work.”

 

He lists off name after name, his eyes fluttering shut. It's been an eventful day – it's catching up to him. Even as terrified as he is, his body needs rest.

 

“What about Reaper?” He jokes, eyes still shut. The cat meows loudly, tail flicking again.

Jack opens one eye, “You like that? You don't really _look_ like a Reaper...but I guess it doesn't really matter, does it? Reaper it is.”

 

His eye closes. Jack laughs, curling around the cat, “What a silly name to give you. Reaper, Reaper, Reaper....I do like saying it, Reaper.”

He yawns, sleep finally taking him, “Good night, Reaper.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“Good night Jack.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

Jack wakes as the moon rests in the sky, a curled crescent.

There is a man in his room.

 

He stands at the window, over Jack's body.

 

Jack's unafraid.

 

The man leans down. He smells like the hearth, like grass. Like the spring wind and the brook that babbles through the forest.

There is pressure on his mouth. Lips against his. Jack doesn't think, but he does react, pressing back.

A kiss to seal them together.

 

Jack falls back asleep.

 

~*~

 

Jack wakes up once more.

 

It's in the space between dark and dawn. The time where the sun hasn't begun it's rise and the moon is settling down for slumber.

He sits up, looking over his room.

He knows what he has to do.

 

It's like clockwork – Jack stands, pulls spare clothes from his cupboard, odds and ends that he'll need for travel. He wraps them together in a bundle and sits at his desk, pulling a scrap of parchment from his leftover scrolls.

It doesn't take long to pen a note to his family.

 

_Dear Mother and Father,_

 

_I won't let Ilios die for me. Do not look for me._

_I love you._

 

 

_-Jack_

 

_(p.s. - the cat is named Reaper. Please ask Malcom to care for him. His wife will love him.)_

 

His hands shake as he writes. Jack takes a deep breath, sitting limply in his chair. Master Morrison had promised his son he'd kill whatever creature came from him, but Jack's too old to believe in fairy tales. He knows how this ends – the island goes without the Goddess' graces and they all wither away.

He can't do that to his people. He can't do that to his _family_.

 

Jack looks around the room once more. The cat is curled where he left it, snoozing peacefully. Jack leans down to kiss it's head before spiriting off.

 

He packs as much food as he can cary – dried meats, figs, olives. Anything he can easily carry with him that won't go bad too quickly. He fills two wineskins with water, tying them to his belt.

 

The servants aren't up yet – the halls are empty and quiet and as he looks around his home, he tries to remember every detail, every minute nook and cranny. He wants something to look back on as he stares death in the face.

 

He walks to the barn and quietly enters, trying not to interrupt the animals.

 

Ovid starts the moment he goes near his bag. She nickers in greeting, stamping her hooves.

“Quiet! Shh, girl, _quiet_.” He grabs her snout, petting her nose, “Please, you can't wake anyone.”

Ovid seems to understand for a moment, giving a snort. They're going on some fun adventure – he can tell that's what she thinks. He's finally found that boat for the two of them and they're going to sale away.

Jack packs his items in the bag, tying it shut tight. A lump forms in his throat.

She nickers again as he turns to walk away, catching him by the collar with her teeth. Horses have an uncanny ability to know what's going on at any time...she's always been smarter than she looks.

“You dummy.” Jack says fondly, pressing his nose against her again, fighting tears. He kisses her fondly, “Take care of Mother for me. Okay?”

 

He steps back from the horse quicker than she can catch him. And then he's off, ignoring her desperate nickers and whinnies.

Where is he going, she thinks. Does the boat not fit them both?

Jack wouldn't leave her, she thinks as she lays onto his pile of hay and looks out the window. Jack would never leave her behind.

 

Right?

 

~*~

 

Jack runs across the estate grounds, taking well memorized paths and hopping the fence. He wipes tears from his face and begins to walk towards the northern star.

 

 

~*~

It's grueling.

 

Jack follows the stars by night and the wind by day. He walks and he walks.

 

When he tires, he sits on the roadside and tries to rest his weary feet. His food runs in short supply quickly as does his water. He took little coin with him (a poor decision, thinking back on it) so he doesn't waste a dime on inns or restaurants. He scavenges what he can find in the thickets and the trees.

 

Sometimes a kind farmer lets him ride in their cart some of the way. These are the times Jack likes best – he can rest and gain some traction towards his goal. They all frown when he tells them he's trying to get to Mouth Lijian.

“Best forget about it boy,” One says frowning, “I'll take ya as far as I can go, but if you're looking for trouble, you're gonna find it.”

 

He walks until his sandals break. He rips them off and continues.

He walks until the hem of his robes are torn.

He walks until his feet bleed from the stones in the road.

 

He walks and he walks.

 

And when he reaches Mount Lijian, he begins to climb. His fingers bleed from the jagged cliffs, his already aching feet _scream_.

 

He climbs until he can't climb any further. Until his limbs refuse to carry him.

 

And there, on that ledge, Jack leans against a rock and stands as proud as he can. He flops his hands against his side, eyes searching through the nothingness around him.

 

“Here I am!” He cries into the clouds. Night is upon them, the sunset a bloody red swatch across the sky, “Here I am you _bastard_. You wanted me and now I'm here, so come and get me!”

 

Jack waits. Waits as the bleeding sunlight finally drips across the horizon and the moon begins his rise.

 

He doesn't startle as he sees the creature fly towards him. Pushes away from the rock and walks to meet it at the cliff.

 

A giant owl.

 

Black, with stars speckled in it's wings. A perfectly white mask across it's face. It lands gracefully in front of Jack, pitch black eyes sparkling in the star's light.

 

“Here I am.” Jack repeats, limping to the bird. It leans forward, extending one wing – Jack climbs onto it's back, legs around it's chest. He twits his fingers into the bird's feathers and holds tight as it gives one flap, two, and takes off into the night sky.

 

 

~*~

 

Gabriel watched him.

 

In the white flowers...the blackbird, the lonely cat.

 

He watched.

 

That night, as Jack slept, he could feel Amelie's arrows heavy in his hands.

One arrow that held sweet water for loyalty. One that held bitter water for longing.

 

He knows his godly-nature can be fickle – he could love one thing one moment and not the next...but Gabriel knows how to make this love permanent. It's all he wants now.

He embeds the arrows into his own breast as Jack sleeps. Jack blinks up at him and Gabriel can't stop himself – he steals a kiss, binding them together.

 

And now, flying through the air, feeling the hands tucked in his feathers, joy makes him feel dizzy.

 

He is in love. His Majesty, Gabriel, The God of Life Itself has fallen in love with a human.

 

May the Goddess have mercy on his very soul.

 

 


	2. the first day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep in the forest of the celestial world, there lays a house. Not abandoned, but neglected. Lonely, waiting for people to fill it's empty halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings this chapter

The air is bitter cold.

 

It's not the still cold of winter or the bluster of autumn or even the sting that comes after holding ice a moment too long. It's a whipping, slicing kind of thing, wet on the edges and filled with teeth. Jack buries his head into the Owl's mane, his fingers frozen to the feathers. The sound is the loudest thing he's ever heard, the roar of the sky pounding as they soar through the air.

His lungs seize every time he tries to take a breath. He's going to die out here, Jack thinks wildly as the Owl dips down to avoid a stray cloud. He's going to die out in this horrible cold with this reckless bird and no one will ever know.

For a second, he considers the situation - not four days ago, he was in his bed, daydreaming about escaping the Villa. Now here he was, clinging to the back of a giant bird, praying to every god that would listen that he wouldn't be flung into the mountains below them.

Talk about irony.

 

He's terrified into tranquility. How could anyone want to travel like this, he thinks as the owl make a sharp left that nearly throws him off. His fingers sink further into the Owl's back. He's too frightened to cry out, so he makes due with a sharp whimper, pressing his head into the animal's mane again.

It isn't like riding Ovid; her body is familiar and easy to read. He could grab onto her mane and ride her through the thickest woods and feel safe, but this... _creature_ is different.

He can feel powerful muscles beneath his legs, feels the thundering beat of blood beneath the owl's skin. In any other instance the feathers would be soft, velvety to the touch, soothing almost. They're far from soothing as the bristles bury themselves into Jack's fingers, under his nails.

It feels entirely too foreign, almost too...human.

 

It's too much to look at the world beneath him. Tiny specks of gold and silver light making itty bitty towns, rivers made of turquoise and forests made of emerald and onyx and if Jack looks over it all again, he's going to be _SICK_.

 

His teeth chatter violently.

“ _Are we there yet?_ ” He tries to call, but every fiber of his being has decided to ignore him.

The bird doesn't respond. Swoops almost directly up, up, up, until Jack thinks they're going to fly right into the stars.

 

“ **Look** ” The booming voice startles him enough that he nearly lets go. He scrambles to find his grip, “ **Almost** ”

 

The owl has turned towards what looks like a mountain of storm clouds. No thunder, no lightning, but there's an almost silver lighting around the edges, like they're dripping moonlight.

 

“ **Hold tight** ” They enter the moondipped clouds. Jack can almost taste snow, the cold somehow becoming even _colder._ He closes his eyes as the roaring of the wind around him grows louder and louder, becoming a steady thrum, a constant heart beat, A

 

 

 

~*~

 

Wind chime wakes him with a start.

 

Jack's eyes snap open, darting around wildly. Instinct tells him to stay as still as possible...his breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding.

He lets out a shuddering breath, confident in the fact that no one is laying behind him. One hand slowly inches from beneath the sanctity of his covers to walk behind him, feeling the expanse of the bed.

Nothing there.

 

From his limited surroundings, he can see he's in a room.

 

The walls are clean, cream colored. There's a dark, wood bed stand beside him. A clay vase sits atop, holding freshly cut flowers. Amaryllis, he bets at the curled, red petals, an entire cluster of them. Jack takes a deep breath, curling his fingers into the pillow bellow him - he can almost smell a hint of their gentle scent. It's overpowered the smell of the clean cotton surrounding him.

 

The wind chime sounds again – he can hear wind whipping through trees. Birds call to each other, their song wafting through the air.

 

Did he pass out?

 

Jack flexes his toes. His fingers. They _ache_ , but he counts them all - eight, nine, ten...all there. Even wrapped in the thick blanket, he can feel the cold gnawing at his bones.

His body feels like it's filled with liquid lead, heavy and sluggish. There's a dull pain in ever joint in his body; exhaustion is a weight he struggles to lift. He sits up slowly. The ache borders on agony, every bone in his body fighting him. His fingertips throb, but they still pull the sheets down around him. Jack's mouth is dry, throat scratchy. He licks his sticky tongue onto his cracked lips and tries to avoid the sandpaper texture in the back of his throat. His eyes sting as they adjust to the light; he rubs them into focus as best he can.

 

Wherever he is...this isn't what he expected. It's a massive room. Sunlight pours through an open window, light crawling to the high ceilings. Jack blinks, blinks again, and then rubs his eyes to make sure he's not hallucinating.

It's beautiful. The place itself is about as big as his family's dining room, and twice as luxurious. A set of blue-velvet lounging couches sit in the center of the room flanking a small table. A desk settles by the window, littered with scrolls and quills. There's a clean fireplace dormant on the wall opposite the bed, it's mantle adorned with carved leaves and what looks like a giant pelt lays in front. It all looks perfectly in place and, yet, perfectly _lived in_. Like someone had been here for years before he woke up...

 

He clutches the blankets that pool around his waist and, for a moment, he feel can feel the salt still clinging to his skin from his hike. He feels...underdressed somewhat. Like what he's wearing isn't proper for a room like this.

Jack looks down at himself, as if to confirm this with himself. But his ragged, torn clothes are long gone; instead he finds he's wearing a clean, white tunic. He notes the tiny patterns on the edges as he pulls his sleeve close to his face - it all looks _brand new_.

 

(Jack tries not to think about the fact that he had to be _undressed_ to be _redressed_ )

 

He groans, gingerly swinging his feet from the bed. They hit the floor, the white birch wood warm to the touch. His legs are weak beneath him; he leans on the frame of the bed, walking slowly to the window.

Every step feels like an eternity. Feels like he's rocking on jagged rocks, on broken glass. His head pounds with every movement, throbbing pain crawling down his spine.

 

He leans against the window sill, panting.

 

He's greeted by a tree – specifically a tree's branches. Between them, he can see greenery outside - flowers turned towards the sun, bushes and finery and the sort. There's a lovely garden below him, with paths lined with little stones and marble statues. When he strains, he can almost hear the bubble of a fountain somewhere in the garden.

 

It looks so unreal. Jack leans his weight against the windowsill, bleary blinking into the sunshine. Birds fly overhead. There's a call of some creature, squawking up a storm. A giant mass of a (well, _maybe_ a) bird walks among the statues, it's long, dark plume trailing behind it.

He squints. If he were more awake, he'd probably be pretty excited.

 

"This can't be it," He rasps to himself, his fingers curling against the wood.

 

It feels like he's awoken in a palace and not the home of some war-beast. He expected a cave, or a pit, strewn with bodies and sinnew and smouldering remains. He expected to be in the war-beast's clutches right now, struggling as the creature sank it's teeth into his flesh, as it devoured him whole.

It's entirely possible, a logical side of him mumbles, that this is build up. That the so-called war-beast was only holding him here to toy with him. To lure him into a state of safety before pouncing to strike...

 

The great-mass-of-a-bird calls out again and it's plume opens up like a sunrise, aqua feathers shimmering in the light.

His mother would love this, Jack thinks, all thoughts of the war-beast gone.

 

“ _Mrow_?”

 

Something weaves between his legs.

 

_"meow."_

“....oh.”

 

Jack leans down, one hand still steading himself as he scoops Reaper from the floor. “So you followed me?”

The cat purrs, immediately rubbing it's chin against's Jack's chest, tail flicking back and forth. It looks content, smiling like it had just ate the canary, “how did you even _get_ here?”

 

The cat meows, nipping at his fingertips. Jack makes his way back to the bed, flopping on the blanket. It's soft to the touch, like the fleece of a newborn lamb. Reaper stretches up and licks at his chin.

 

“Are _you_ my husband?” Jack jokes weakly, setting the cat down and watching it curl beside him. Reaper's tail sways to-and-fro, whipping across the bed like a shot, “I suppose you think we're going to have a whole mess of kittens now.”

He lays back, legs still dangling from the side of the bed, “Maybe that wouldn't be so bad...I actually don't think I'd mind it. I like kittens, after all.”

The cat meows again. It's taken a more quizzical tone, head twisting this-way-and-that as Jack begins to repeat the word “kitten”.

“I just like saying it. Kitten, kitten, kitten.” His eyes slip closed as he talks, body beginning to relax. Exhaustion overtakes him, “I want a proper wedding, by the way. Where are we even going to find you a little toga?”

 

Reaper lays beside him as Jack falls fast asleep.

 

 

 

~*~

 

Jack wakes up once after a few hours. It's only for a second – he's under the covers now, his head on the silken pillow. There are arms nestled on his waist, the smell of rich cologne wafting in the air.

He falls back asleep quickly, thinking how nice it is of his cat-husband to tuck him into bed.

 

 

 

~*~

 

It's late afternoon when he wakes again. The sluggish exhaustion is long gone, replaced with gnawing anxiety. The cat is still beside him, tucked in the space between the pillow and his neck and as content as content can be. It purrs softly, entire body radiating warmth.

It's a clean smelling cat, Jack thinks as it rubs it's head against his cheek, a far cry from the strays that roam Illios. Well fed (maybe a little chubby, Jack thinks wryly), well brushed, well behaved; Whoever owns him certainly wears a lot of cologne, it's all the cat smells of.

 

Jack pulls the blankets to his chin, tucking his knees to his chest and holding them there. The clean, neat room just seems _sinister_ in the afternoon light. The cry of the garden bird, once a lovely chime, now sounds like a scream.

He almost wants to cry – all at once it dawns upon him the severity of the situation, that this could be his last waking day. Whoever (or _what_ ever) wanted him would inevitably come for him, drag him out of the safe bed and to his very demise.

Jack rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest. His heart races but his mind moves at a mile-a-day pace, studying every crack, every knick in the cream paint.

 

Why had that never occurred to him? This wasn't even a trap - it was suicide, through and through. The unfairness of it all tastes horribly bitter, what had he _really_ done to deserve this? Jack bites his lip; he wasn't a bad person. He was polite to everyone, he was penitent before the Gods, he cared for his family...

 

For a moment, he thinks of his so-called "grand scheme" of escape...could that be it? Was this his punishment, for wanting to leave?

'Why would they care?' part of him argues.

'Of course they would!' another chimes up soundly, 'Only a coward runs.'

 

Jack's not a coward. Just because he _daydreamed_ about it, didn't mean he would do it...would that really anger the Gods so much?

 

It doesn't help that his moving around has jolted Reaper, who is now walking all over the bed, meowing and purring and trying to convince Jack to get up. Jack blows a puff of air onto a stray paw that taps his nose, trying to get the cat to leave him be.

The cat chuffs, irritated, fluffing it's hair up. It sneezes and shakes it's head, the tip of it's tail beginning to twitch agitatedly. “Look, I'm not stopping you.” Jack says, still staring at the ceiling, “No one's stopping you, so go walk around if you want.”

He turns over, tucking his hands under his pillow, “I'm staying right here, thanks.” The cat continues to tap at him, the soft paws joined by a slightly high-pitch trill. It paces on the bed and, after a time, hops to walk around on Jack's side, balanced on his lithe frame.

Back and forth, back and forth – Jack furrows his brow, determined to ignore the persistent animal. Eventually, Reaper sits on his shoulder and continues to trill, staring at him with those too-amber eyes.

“Again, no one's stopping you, cat.” Jack huffs, adjusting his shoulder and shoving Reaper off, “You have four legs that aren't broken – go wherever you want.”

Reaper gives an irritated hiss. Jack ignores him, closing his eyes.

 

To an extent, he can appreciate the cat's demands. The last moments of his life shouldn't be spent moping in bed, he _knows_ that. He just can't find it in him to care.

 

Reaper gives another growl and begins to slide under the covers with him, pushing the fabric aside until he was tucked against Jack's bared thigh.

 

It's a warm cat, Jack muses. It's almost nice to feel that body warmth against his still-chill skin.

 

And then it bites him.

 

Jack yelps, leaping out of the bed with a start.

 

“Are you kidding me?!” He shrieks, looking at his thigh – it's red, but unbroken. Really, it hadn't hurt at all, more startled him than anything – it was just the principle of it.

Reaper sticks his head from under the covers, a self-satisfying smirk on the cat's face. Jack snatches the cat by the scruff. Reaper meowls, kicking his legs helplessly as Jack storms to the bedroom, places him firmly on the floor and slams it behind him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

Jack storms back to the bed and flops onto the soft fabric. The cat has damn sharp teeth, he muses as he rubs the stinging mark. They say that when you're sore from one injury, having a little nick or scratch may distract you from the pain.

Jack can clearly say that's a load of horseshit. A brand new bruise - _fantastic_.

 

 

He pouts, grumbling about pushy cats and their pushy ways; but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he should actually _thank_ the cat. He was too busy moping in bed to take a really good look around himself - the room has a lovely set up.

Paintings of open landscapes and bountiful pastures adorn the walls and the blue velvet couches have patches of repaired fabric on them. Even the blanket he'd huddled up in in is decorated with fanciful pictures of tiny people walking along a green steppe. The more he studies, the more lived-in the place looks...it's a comforting sight, honestly.

 

There's a scroll on the desk, a feather sitting next to it. Jack stands and walks to the desk, examining the quill between his fingers.

He's never seen a quill like this before, the feathers a hue of green and blue. They're almost velvety to the touch, it's weight comforting.

On the corner of the desk sits a tiny cup filled with a dark liquid – Jack gingerly lifts it, sniffs it.

It's a pungent, tinny smell. Jack wrinkles his nose, dipping a finger in and rubbing the sticky, pigment liquid between his fingers...the deep blue ink stains his fingers tips.

 

The great bird shrieks again – Jack starts, leans over and looks out the window. It's settled into one of the stone ponds, it's plume raised high and spread in the afternoon sun.

 

“What god lets their beast live like this?” He sits back in the chair, supporting his chin in his hand, “If this is the pet's house, I wonder how the master lives?”

There's another yowl at the door. Jack rolls his eyes, still watching the great-bird air it's feathers – from the moment Jack closed the door, Reaper stood in the hall and cried as if he's dying. Jack isn't moved in the slightest. It's the cat's own damn fault, there was no reason to bite him.

Well, maybe there was some reason.

_Some_.

 

There's a red tie around the scroll – he wipes the sticky liquid onto the hem of his tunic, undoing the tie. The parchment unrolls itself onto the desk.

“It...”

His blood runs cold. Jack drops the feather, his hands falling limply to his side, “It's...”

 

It was _him_. Drawn in blue ink, sketches of him sleeping, of him walking, of him petting what looks like the beginnings of a horse. He'd recognize those spots anywhere, they're the same ones that Ovid has on her flank.

Jack lets his fingers brush against the dry ink, rolls the scroll to see more – they aren't all him (thankfully) but of other people. A woman with long dark hair, a child running with birds, a beautiful young man with almond eyes, and a dog running through what looked like a field of reeds. Sketches of places with notes written in messy handwriting, “ _I remember it like it was yesterday”_ or “ _Hanamura in the Fall_ ”

It smacks of loneliness. Someone who sees the little details in things, big or small.

 

Was it his husband? Jack was working under the assumption that he was living with a _beast_ , but what beast can write? Or draw? None that Jack knows of...

 

The cat gives a rather indignent screech and begins to claw at the door – it breaks Jack out of his stupor.

“You're not coming in until you've said you've apologized” Jack says firmly, rolling the scroll back together. His fingers linger over the drawings of him sleeping, “Say you're sorry.”

There's a softer meow – a mopey, feline apology, he supposes. He sighs heavily and stalks to the door, opening it slowly. He puts a foot out before the cat jolts into the room, makes him sit.

“Again.” The cat growls and looks away, it's fur ruffled. “No, I want to hear you say it to my face.”

 

Jack quirks an eyebrow, “Say sorry.” The cat chuffs and gives the same mopey meow.

“Close enough.” Jack pulls his foot back – the cat jolts inside and onto the bed, purring, “No more biting. Understand?”

The cat curls into the rumpled bedsheets and purrs louder.

 

 

 

~*~

 

The wardrobe beside the desk holds a whole host of fabrics – stolas of all colors and patterns, palla woven from silk, broaches of every kind and shape. The jewelry is abundant, one shelf filled with necklaces and bracelets of silver and platinum and gems Jack's never seen before.

There are veils made of pure chiffon folded on the top row. Jack disregards them.

 

He pulls out the simplest stola he can find and puts it on easily. They've been freshly laundered and perfumed, a tiny satchel of dried spices rolling onto the floor as he put it on.

He looks himself over - the stola is...different. Lighter fabric, a slit on his left-hand side that rose to his hip. Jack looks through the folded clothing, they _all_ seem to have that. An unspoken request from his husband, he supposes - Jack tries to wave away the niggling embarrassment - it's not like there's anyone here to see him.

 

As tempting as it is, he doesn't put on any jewelry.

 

“C'mon.” Jack lifts the cat up. It wriggles from his grasp and crawls onto his shoulders, settling there easily.

Jack shrugs his shoulders, walking to the door, “Suit yourself.”

 

He reaches for the door handle. Doesn't open the door.

 

He doesn't know what's behind it. Obviously nothing all that fatal, he thinks as Reaper begins to gnaw at a strand of his hair...but it still scares him.

_It's suicide, through and through_...

 

“Guess we'd better use the sunlight we've got left, huh?” He jokes shakily, hands closing on the doorknob. It doesn't burn him, or bite. The door doesn't swallow him whole – it's just a door.

 

_It's just_ _a door_ , he tells himself as he opens it and walks into the dark hallway.

 

 

\- - -

 

They walk together slowly. The house is silent, the halls empty. His steps echo off the high ceilings, sharp _tap taps_ that trick him into thinking there are people all around him. He passes closed doors, light seeping from beneath.

 

There's a film of dust on every surface. Wherever he is, someone hasn't lived there for a long time. Reaper leaps from his shoulder and runs ahead, little paws clicking against the marble floors.

Jack follows closely, utterly unnerved by the stillness that surrounds him. The stairs groan under his weight, a growling noise that makes him jump once.

 

The hall opens into a large room, thick, short grass coating the floor. Crawling ivy flanks the white columns that stand at the edge of a cool garden, a fountain bubbling in the center.

The atrium is open to the outside, steps leading from the marble down to the forest Jack had seen from his window. Afternoon sunshine filters through the branches, playing shapes onto the walls. The grass tickles his feet as he walks through, the stalks seemingly curling towards him as he observes the statue pouring water into the pond.

 

It's of a young woman, her stone hair flowing behind her. She holds an amphora at her hip, a her hand raised in a 'come hither' motion. Jack recognizes her by the mark underneath her eye.

 

“Queen of the gods...” He says quietly. He pulls his stola to his knees and steps into the pool, his fingers touching the intricate details of her robes.

The sculpture is a master, every tiny detail etched into the marble, from the curl of her toga to the very lines of her place. She looks as if she'll move at any second, as if she'd reach out and curl her fingers against Jack. He pulls his hand back, resting it against his chest...he's actually pretty sheepish about touching her now.

 

The water is crystal clear. All at once, Jack realizes how thirsty he actually is – he cups his hands and fills them with the water, lapping it down. It tastes almost sweet.

 

The cat hops onto the edge of the pond, watching him closely. Jack laughs at it's judgmental stare, letting the fabric drop from his hands and float into the water. It's an oddly nice feeling, soaking his still aching feet in the cool water. Reaper mewls at him, leaning down to pat his paw against the rippling surface.

“Don't judge,” he laughs softly, leaning down and splashing water towards the cat. It hops away, giving him a catty grin, "You could join me, it feels _so_ nice."

 

The cat gives him an exaggerated huff, it's tail fluffing like a bottle brush.

Jack steps from the pond and scoops the cat into his arms.

 

He walks down the stairs, the train of his soggy stola following behind him. The air is so much cleaner here, he notes. The birch tree's emerald leaves are dotted with yellow and orange. Autumn has come for where ever he is now, the sun-soaked trees eager for the change. Jack leans against one of them, looking into their branches.

 

The sunlight has taken an almost red tone as the night lumbers towards them. The forest itself breathes a sigh; the night birds hop groggily from their homes, stretching their wings and preparing themselves for the night's hunt

 

Jack pushes away from the tree and follows the path, pulled by curiosity. The great bird is chirping, snapping lazily at the first wave of glow-flies. He's never seen a bird like that, long spindly legs, a curved beak, feathers that shimmer in the evening light. It almost looks like a toy, something sewn together by a master craftsman. The bird notices him and perks, standing and trotting over to him. It looks just as curious, twisting it's head from side to side slowly.

 

They stop the same distance from one another, turning this way and that to see what the other is. Jack leans down and places Reaper beside him, extending a hand.

 

“C'mon...I don't bite, c'mon.” He crooks his fingers as the bird creeps towards him, “I'm sorry, I don't have any food. I didn't pack very well.”

It comes close enough that Jack can see the hues of green and blue within it's dark coat. The feathers behind it shake slightly as it leans it's head forward for a pet. Jack strokes it's crest as gently as he can as it gives a soft trill.

“Where'd you even come from. Are you alone?” Jack tucks his legs beneath him as the bird sits and tilts it's head for more pets. It stomps it's leg, eyes fluttering shut as Jack scratches the perfect spot, “I've never seen anything like you...then again, I haven't seen a lot of things, I'm starting to discover.”

 

The bird shoves itself into his lap, rubbing against his chest, looking up at him with big, blue eyes - another companion, Jack thinks wryly, eyeing the jealous look Reaper gives.

The forest seems to go on forever – no matter how hard he looks, he can't see anything but trees. Maybe it had family in there? He hoped so. It must be a lonely world, he thinks sadly, alone with no one to admire it's beauty.

To be all alone...

 

He's always had his family. His parents and his brother and his sister and their children and partners.

 

How many times had he thought about having his own space, of the peace and quiet of solitude – ask and you shall receive Jack thinks bitterly.

 

Reaper growls from it's spot, pacing beside him. It butts it's head against Jack's arm, patting him for attention.

Jack laughs as the bird sits back, considers the cat, and pecks at it. The cat leaps back and hisses, fur on edge.

“Don't be greedy cat, you got to sleep with me.” Jack gets to his feet and the cat leaping into his arms, “No need to get jealous.”

He tucks the cat against his shoulder and turns to the bird.

“I'll come back with food next time. Okay?”

 

The bird trills again and rolls his eyes as Reaper lays it's head on Jack's shoulder and sticks it's tongue out.

 

 

 

~*~

 

The house itself is different from any house that Jack's ever seen.

It seems like the dark hallways branch out from the atrium, spider-webbing across the villa. He takes the stairs slowly, running his fingers along the smooth wood banister.

When he was little, he accompanied his father to a friend's home – one of the princes in the city of Mumbai, who had a villa as splendid as this. He remembers running through the halls with the prince's children, their laughter echoing against the walls as the servants scolded their rambunctious behavior.

Maybe it just needs people, Jack thinks as he walks into his room, closing the door shut behind him. Houses get lonely, don't they? Wouldn't they want people in them, to keep them company? Reaper leaps from his arms and pads back to the bed, flopping onto the rumbled covers.

 

Jack walks to the desk and pulls out the scroll, rolling it until he gets to a clean slice of papyrus.

“Okay.” He sits and takes up the feathered writing utensil. It's not like he's uneducated – his mother taught him how to write but...it has been a while.

He dips the quill into the ink, the quill sapping up the sticky liquid, “Here we are.” He draws a box. And then a line, with other boxes on either side, and a set of zig-zagging lines to an even larger box.

“Reaper – look at this.” He waves the cat over, jotting down tiny words on the side – _bedroom_ for the first box, tiny lines for the others. He'll give them all names as he explores them.

“We're here.”

He draws a sloppy star onto the bedroom. The cat crawls onto the edge of the papyrus, tail curled into a question mark as it sniffs the paper. Jack presses a finger against he still wet ink, smearing it, “And this is where we ended up”

He drags the ink to the larger box, now called _outside_.

“We can start in this hallway and work our way through to the end.” he sits back, wiping his hand against his side, “People haven't lived here for years...maybe there's still some trace of who did.”

He looks towards the window, “We only have a few hours of light left...I don't know about you, cat, but I really _don't_ want to be out there at night.”

The cat meows, tilting it's head. Jack laughs softly, scratching under it's chin.

 

“You know, people would think I'm crazy, talking to you.” He leans his arm against the desk, carefully avoiding the papyrus, “You always seem like you're listening though.”

The cat winks one content eye at him, tail swishing. “Maybe I _am_ crazy.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

He tears the impromptu map out of the scroll, holding it in front of him as he walks back to the hall – take one look left, one look right...still no one.

“Stay close.” He murmurs, stepping into the hall. His footsteps echo, a sharp _tap-tap_. The cat does as told, weaving between his legs as he walks.

 

He feels considerably safer having Reaper around

The first door is locked. So is the one across from it. The one beside that one is open.

 

It's another bedroom, done in a different color – while his room is white and trimmed with yellow, this room is filled with baby blue, with a thick white sheepskin on the floor. It smells of heavily of roses when Jack walks in, roses and freshly clean cotton.

 

It's considerably smaller, with a tiny bed in the center. Stuffed animals lay nestled at the edge of the bed, sleepy smiles sewn onto their faces.

Is it a room for a child?

 

Jack sits on the bed, picking up a stuffed creature - a man, with rich mahogany skin and yarn hair tied into a neat bun. There are scratches stitched against his cheek, a tiny wreath around his head. Jack laughs; the stuffed man looks so sullen and grumpy, it's the only one of the creatures that isn't smiling.

"I bet you miss your child." Jack says softly, putting the stuffed-man back onto the pile and leaning back against the thick comforter, "Although you seem like a grouch."

 

The blanket is softer than a lamb's fleece and so warm to the touch.

He lets himself lay back, eyes fluttering shut as he takes a deep breath.

He could fall asleep here, he thinks softly, as his eyes flutter shut. It's not like the ache in his bones from walking has gone away, but laying in this bed, with it's too-soft fleece and too-sweet smell, it begins to fade into the background. The tension ebbs from his shoulders and his muscles loosen as he lays a hand over his belly, breathing deep.

 

“You know, we're wasting time here.”

“I know, I know.” Jack says softly, almost to himself. In this bed, it doesn't occur to him that he's technically the only person there. “You look very comfortable.”

“I am.”

"You almost make me want to join you."

"You-" Jack's eyes shoot open, as it hits him like a sledgehammer. He jolts up with a gasp, grasping the bedsheets, looking around wildly.

 

No one. He's totally, entirely alone in the room...all except for the cat, who sits at the doorway watching him.

Jack snatches his supplies up and leaps from the bed, stumbling to the doorway. He gathers Reaper in his arm as he slams the door behind him, moving as far away from the door as he can. His heart thunders in his chest. Reaper drops from his arms as Jack stares, clutching the front of his shirt.

 

“Who...” His entire body shakes. Fear isn't a new animal but it certainly isn't a friend – he leans a hand against the wall, steadying himself, “You didn't see anyone...did you?”

The cat gives a curious meow, twisting it's head again. “No...I suppose you didn't. Not like you could tell me if you did...” Jack pushes away from the wall, frowning at the doorway. He can still smell the roses from outside, it's fragrance seeping from beneath the doorway.

 

In his map he marks the room with a giant X. _Do not enter_.

 

 

 

~*~

 

In the blue room, Jack never notices the stuffed grump's companion: a newley-stuffed yellow-haired boy with a clever smirk, and little gemstones for eyes.

 

 

 

~*~

 

Including his room and the blue room (he can't help but shudder), and the two rooms he couldn't enter, the hallway itself holds four different rooms.

 

“So what do you think?”

The cat's ears twitch forward, looking over Jack's shoulder. They're sitting at the edge of the pond, Jack cross-legged on the ticklish grass, and Reaper curled on the stone's edge, his tail playing in the water, looking over their crude map. Jack chews on the end of the quill, brow furrowed. The cat chuffs curiously.

“We could go that way,” He points to the furthermost hallway, “I guess it would be appropriate to go east, we did come from the west hall...or we could go forward....”

He looks up from the map, worrying his lips, “The only problem is, we're already running out of sunlight. And it's not like we have a ton of torches around here, let alone fire.”

He untangles his legs to bring his knees to his chest, leaning his arms over them.

“It'd be nice if we had a candle, at least. _Something_.” He grins at the cat, “Unless you have some tricks hidden up your sleeve.”

The cat grins at him, saying nothing.

“Didn't think so.” He stands, brushing grass from his stola, “East it is, I guess. Though, we'll have to turn back soon, I'm running out of ink.”

 

Jack stretches his back out, hands raised high – his back cracks and snaps, a pleasant buzz flooding his veins. He groans contentedly.

“I guess this is why you cats do this so much,” He thinks out loud, pulling his arms forward to stretch them further, “It feels so much better.”

 

He looks back at the cat who is staring unblinkingly at him. Jack laughs, patting his side.

“It'd be nice if you could talk instead of just looking at me like that.”

 

The cat shakes his head (as if out of a stupor) and trots to his side, “Wouldn't that be funny? I wonder what you'd even sound like.”

He thinks about it as they cross the atrium slowly, enjoying the last shreds of daylight. The great-bird is singing outside, probably calling to the approach of night and the wind sighs again. In all his life, Jack's never heard so many trees.

“It must be nice...living here.” He looks down at the cat, “You live here, right?”

It gives a soft _murr_ -ing sound, flicking one ear. _Why do you think that_?

“It would only make sense.” Jack shrugs in response to a voice he can't even hear, “I'm just wondering how you got to _my_ home. It's not like it's around the corner, you know.”

 

The cat sneezes, trotting ahead.

“Hey, don't leave me! Wait up!”

 

Jack walks a little faster, tucking his supplies beneath his arm. His feet kick at a rock, sending it skittering across the floor. It hits the wall with a very un-rock like clattering. Jack stops, looking around the floor. The cat stands at the doorway, meowing for him.

“Just a minute, just...just a minute, okay?” He says softly, bending over to pick the “rock” up.

It's a jar, the same tiny jar that was on the desk in his room. The carved lid is a little cracked, but not enough to damage the liquid inside.

Jack opens it – it's ink.

“You didn't...how did this even _get_ here?” He stands at his full height again, staring at the ink. He looks at Reaper, who grins back at him.

 

“I guess I should stop asking questions, at this point.” He pads over to the cat, lines starting to form on his face.

The cat chuffs at him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

This hallway has fewer doors, the opposing wall lined with open glass windows. He sticks his head out into the evening, the never-ending forest greeting him

 

Potted plants hang from the windowsills. Bright green vines curl from the edges of their pots, crawling upward. Flowers bloom every few spots, fluttering in the breeze. It's the same rose smell from the room – he supposes he should be afraid of it. After all, the smell had lulled him into a false sense of security – who knows what could be lurking behind the doors.

He never was one to learn his lessons.

 

The first room was locked (surprise, surprise), but the second one opened easily. There was a weaving machine on the far wall, with a large table in the center.

Out of all the rooms, this was obviously the most lived in. There were scraps of fabric _everywhere_ , with every shade and hue and texture, half made shirts and cloaks and dresses hanging from the walls. The room smells heavily of dye.

 

The cat leaps into a pile of yarn, rolling in the strings and chattering up a storm. Jack walks along the edges of the room, his eyes catching on a (rather dirty) stola. It's splattered with mud and grass, holey in places and awfully dingy looking, but he can't help but feel fondness.

“So that's where it was.” He supplies absentmindedly, easing his old stola from the hook and taking it to the work bench, spreading it out.

 

It hadn't occurred to Jack really how haggard he'd looked as he'd climbed the mountain. Climbing is hard, but climbing in a _stola_ is miserable. He remembers the fabric getting caught on rocks, tripping him, his skin sticky and sweaty beneath the un-breathing fabric.

 

For a moment, he can actually understand why his....well, his _husband_ had undressed him and cleaned him up.

 

(It still feels pretty gross)

 

Jack runs his fingers down the gown's trim. His mother would have an absolute _fit_ if she saw this – it's not like his clothes are cheap, after all.

 

“She's always nagging about being neater.” He says, half to himself and half to Reaper (who had taken to chasing a ball of twine across the floor). Jack stands back, his arms crossed “ _Stand up straight_ , _smile nice,_ _don't do this, don't do that_ ”

He can mimic his mother's voice fairly well. He sighs, suddenly very tired.

“I miss her already. Even the nagging...at least it was noise.” He looks over the tattered stola, “I wonder what they're doing now...probably sitting down for dinner."

Malcolm's noisey wife was supposed to be cooking today...in a way, he's happy he won't have experience her horrendous meals but...

“I hope they're all together.” he murmurs, turning over a hem, “Do you think they miss me, cat? I've only been gone a day...”

 

Jack's yanked from his thoughts as a ball of twine hits his ankle and Reaper runs directly into his leg.

“Have you had enough?” He covers his mouth with his hand, giggling as the cat sits back, momentarily stunned, “You should really pay attention, cat, I was talking to you.”

 

He picks the cat up, pulling it close. Jack places a quick kiss on the edge of it's nose, nuzzling it close, “C'mon cat, you're my partner. I can't have you passing out half way through, we still have rooms to see.”

They leave the room together – Jack doesn't notice the love-struck way the cat glances up at him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

The other two rooms are empty. One holds a turned over chair, the other two couches covered with a thin, white tarp.

At the very end of the hall lay a huge pair of doors. Unlike the others, the knobs are made of twisted iron, curled into a U-shape. Jack pulls on one gingerly – it doesn't budge.

 

“What's back there?” He asks, arms akimbo, “I don't think whoever owns this house just put doors here for _fun."_

 

Or maybe he did - Jack's not here to judge.

 

He leans his weight on one hip, looking over the door once more. Unlike the soft tan doors that line the hallways, this one is a dark, rich, red mahogany. It's...ominous looking in the dusk light.

 

“C'mon, help me out.” Jack's not entirely sure how the cat's going to do that, but he still grips the handle with both hands and begins to pull.

He's certainly no lightweight. A childhood of working the land, of carrying his father's armor, of training the horses have given him a lot of power – he uses every bit of it as he begins to pull the creaky doors open.

Bit by bit, the door gives some leeway, groaning the entire way. Slowly, slowly, slowly...

Jack finds a groove in the floor and gives one good yank – the door's edge falls into that well-worn grove and opens fully. It's the smell that hits him first – _paper_. _Ink_...dust and aged sunlight. There's a sole window in the center of the massive room that travels from the bottom of the floor to the tip-top of the tall ceiling – in the evening's light, all Jack can see are _scrolls_ and _tablets_ and square objects with beautifully crafted backs.

He walks in like he's in a dream, almost afraid to touch anything. The desk in the center is littered with broken styluses and ink-coated parchments.

 

“I've never been in a library before.” He breathes, leaning against a desk – he pulls back quickly as his hand lands in fresh ink.

“I...” he laughs looking at the ink that drips down his palm, “You want to know something funny? I didn't even think they could _get_ this big...I'd heard stories but..”

 

He flops into a chair, starstruck. How did this room even _get_ here, he thinks, plucking up a broken stylus, the room itself was bigger than the wing of the house would make it seem.

Then again - Reaper and the bird were, more or less, entirely sentient and random voices grew from the walls...at the end of the day, Jack supposes this is just the way of the house.

 

His sister had seen the great libraries of the bigger cities, had brought back stories of rows and rows filled with every story, every study, every picture known to man. She'd stayed there for hours, pouring over every shred of information...Jack grins to himself. She's going to be _so_ jealous.

 

It would take _months_ for him to go through every book...years maybe, considering the size of some of the scrolls.

 

“Maybe this place isn't so bad after all.” He smirks as Reaper rubs his cheek against Jack's.

 

 

 

~*~

 

After marking the rooms in his impromptu map, Jack wanders the shelves, grabbing every book that catches his eye. Reaper doesn't follow him, content to wait at the desk and examine every book Jack brings back.

 

The shelves reach to the very ceiling, higher than Jack can reach. There are ladders on the end of every shelf - but nothing like Jack had ever seen. Tiny wheels on the ladder's feet glide the thing across the floor. Jack gives them a slight push, impressed by the smooth gait.

It's not like wheels are that impressive of an invention - they're everywhere, after all. At the mill, on the carts and wagons but it's the first time he'd ever seen them so...well, _small_.

It doesn't take long for Jack to go rolling down the aisle, grabbing every book he can as he flies past, hooting in delight. It's quite a rush (and he nearly falls more time than he'd like to say), but he still gives the ladder a running start every time he hits the end.

 

Some of the books in his language but plenty aren't. The languages vary beautifully, written in curling lines or minuscule drawings.

They're filled with pictures. Practically every book he picks up has some sort of drawing in them – some are crude, but most are vibrant, painstakingly crafted, the ink raised slightly. He opens one and closes his eyes, letting his fingers grace over the work. He can see the image in his head, his mind filled with vibrant colors and lush paradises.

 

He takes his last pile of books back to Reaper, a boyish smile on his face.

“I can't even understand this one,” He says giddily as pulling the chair to the table and the cat into his lap, “But look – look, right here.”

He opens a book to the halfway point, to a picture of a beach side town. The dome roofs are etched in a vibrant blue, fish swimming in the tiny ocean.

“That's _my_ town.” The cat sits up on it's front paws looking over the artwork, nose quivering, “I can tell it anywhere – look, that's the street the flower-lady walks up every day.”

Jack drags his finger over a drawn street, walking his fingers until they land on a tiny building, “And this is where the smith works. She's always tinkering in that workshop of hers. Her father taught her, but she's _much_ better than he is.” He sighs, supporting his head on his hand.

“You'd think she'd be afraid of the fire, but she isn't. She's always at that kiln, making something new. Barely charges too – she makes the best swords I've ever seen, but she won't let you pay more than a pittance for them. Says the work is payment enough.”

The cat purrs, pressing close to his chest.

 

“Leslie would love this place.” He says quietly, closing the book and pushing it away. He picks up another from the stack and opens it from the beginning, “She used to collect things like this, before she had her children. I remember when she moved in with her husband – he had this room that was dedicated to all his kills. It had all these heads and pelts – stank to high heaven.”

Jack laughs, rubbing his nose against Reaper's ear, “She made him throw every bit of it out and moved all her books into there. He was so _pissed_. I wonder if they're still there...”

He looks over the first few words, written in neat, small handwriting

“ _Of bodies chang'd to various forms I sing,_

_Ye Gods, from whome these miracles did spring.”_

 

 

 

~*~

 

It's a fairly long tome, but Jack gobbles it up like candy – it's hauntingly written, the rhyme twisting together into a perfect fabric. Stories of gods, stories of people, stories of love gained and lost.

 

They talk of war, a war between the once brotherly Gods. It stings more than Jack would like - he knows what the author's thinking.

 

The priestesses said the Celestials fought harder between themselves than the humans, with all their fancy armor and weapons. That it destroyed them and they had to build themselves back up. Gods don't just enjoy human's praises, they _thrive_ on it. If the humans lost then faith, then the Gods would lose their powers, the strength. It was a pointless war, Jack frowns, no one really benefited from it. Aldersbrun lay in ruins, the great nation of Eichenwalde (their so-called leader) was no better. Their kings lay amongst the dead in the battlefields and the parliament of nations had fallen into chaos.

Illios prided themselves in weathering the war, but really, was that anything to be proud of? Was it anything to celebrate?

Jack doesn't think so. Maybe he had as they sailed back to their little idyllic countryside, but now...well, it's only brought them trouble, hasn't it? If they hadn't have gone to war in the _first_ place, if they had stayed neutral (as the other smaller countries had), maybe Jack wouldn't be here.

 

It's selfish to think that. Jack blows a stray hair from his face, still buried in the book. He can't blame his current predicament on the war, this was bound to be his fate. After all, the Gods don't just let these things happen...

 

Well...

 

Gods are...fickle. Jack didn't need to read a book to tell him that, everyone in their right mind _knows_ that Gods can be temperamental. It's just their way, no different than a sudden storm or a baleful wind on the shores. Gods pick and choose who will be blessed with good fortune and who marries the war-beast.

It is what it is.

 

In the scheme of things, it could be worse. Jack could be marrying a sea-monster.

 

 

 

~*~

 

He reads and he reads.

 

He paints situations in his mind, the character still soft and malleable in their clay. Great landscapes of the god's temples and the houses of the kings and queens they selected.

He opens a small book, flipping through the pages. Unlike the others, it's a journal of portraits done in chalk. The people on the page look so life-like, as if they're about to speak to him.

 

Jack lands on a page and stays. He looks, studies. Every tiny detail is etched into his face, every flaw only adding to his handsomeness.

 

It's of a man. His eyes are closed and weary, his face scruffy, his hair wild and verging on unkempt.

He looks familiar, Jack thinks, tilting his head. He looks so...painfully sad and familiar.

Almost like...

 

A soft paw taps his cheek.

“Oh! Oh...” He sits up, looks around – the window is dark, shafts of moonlight pouring in. Ornate lanterns hang from poles on the bookshelves, their light flooding the room with a gentle glow. At this point, Jack just assumes _this is the way of the house_ , and doesn't question it.

 

“I'm sorry. I got so caught up...lost track of time, I guess.” He smiles sheepishly at the (obviously unamused) cat, “I'm sure you're hungry.”

The cat bristles and meows loudly, tail flicking to the side. “All right, all right.”

 

He stands, wincing at the dull pain that shoots down his back – he must have been sitting too long, “Don't yell – let's find something to eat.”

He stretches his hands above his head, the cat bounding from the table and out the door, the hallway echoing with the tiny _tap-tap_ of pawsteps.

 

“He- _Hey!_ ” Jack calls after the cat before rolling his eyes and walking in the same direction. Again, Jack's just going to chalk this up to _that's the way it is_. His stomach grumbles – He rubs his belly, walking through the dusty halls.

The house looks different at night. The pure white walls are now a shade of ivory, the lonely pictures suddenly very lifelike. The shadows hide the dust that settles in the nooks-and-cranies

For a moment, Jack almost convinces himself that people have _lived_ in this house, that they still do.

 

It's not like it would be a bad place to live. In fact, with a few people, some time, some love, it would be a fabulous home. Ovid would love to run through the forest, he could plant all the flowers and trees he wanted, Reaper would chase the chickens and bother the cows and get harassed by the dogs that only want to lick and play.

His family would stop by sometimes, spend time in the atrium and congratulate him on keeping an orderly home. And he would smile and thank them and flaunt his new-found wealth because, of course, one is allowed to be a _little_ bit of a braggart.

And his husband would sit by his side, would smile a perfectly winning smile to his parents and assure his siblings that, yes, he had good intentions, no, he wasn't just here to eat Jack...

The fantasy turns his mouth sour.

 

Jack wrings his hands together, eyeing the lively pictures, the ornate lanterns. He can daydream from here to eternity but it all stops when he considers that, for all intents-and-purposes, he's betrothed now to a creature that he doesn't even have a name for. That he can't even put a _face_ to.

What he wouldn't give to be home right now. Jack crosses his arms, rubbing the gooseflesh that creeps from his shoulders. He doesn't want to dream anymore.

 

 

 

~*~

 

“Cat? Cat!” Jack enters the atrium – the pool shimmers under the lantern hanging from The Goddess' hand. The night birds are in full swing now, their songs chiming in the wind.

He walks to the pool and climbs on the edge, working the lantern's chain from the Goddess' hand. He raises it high above his head and walks down the steps, looking out into the dark forest

 

“Reaper? You out here?” he looks around, straining to see in the night. He'd expected to see Reaper waiting for him in the atrium but he was gone. It's not like Jack's worried. After all, Reaper's a cat and cats will do what they want, but....well, it's not like he has a lot of people to talk to.

Reaper listened to him, responded, cuddled, purred. All the things he never expected a cat to do, let alone a pet in _this_ house. The last thing Jack wanted was for Reaper to leave him.

Or get eaten...that was a distinct possibility, with the house so open to the elements. All it took was one ambitious fox...

 

He bites his tongue walking down the gravel path, calling Reaper's name. The lantern only gives so much light. Trying to find a black cat at night in a forest with low light would be an ultimately fruitless task for even the most shrewd of hunters, but Jack isn't deterred in the slightest.

...Kind of....

 

He jumps when he hears a shrill squawk – a great mass is running towards him.

Jack cries out in shock, falling back, scrambling against the gravel pathway. Great-bird leaps into his lap, cooing happily.

Jack gives an _oomf!_ Sound as the bird lands, it's sharp talons prancing happily on his stomach.

“Hey, _Hey_ , I'm happy to see you too, but you're perforating my stomach.”

The bird lets him up, trilling. “Have you seen Reaper? Did he run outside?”

Great-bird trills again, cock it's head to the side and pinning him with one sharp eye.

Jack stands, brushing grit from the seat of his clothes. Great-bird prances around him, cooing low in the back of it's throat.

It pushes past him to run back into the house, prancing about the steps like a colt. “You want me to follow you?” The bird whooped, it's crest fluffing up.

“Sure. Why not?” Jack rolls his eyes, walking after the bird, “I already follow a cat around, if we get a dog, we'll have a whole pack.”

 

The bird slows it's hopping to a slow gait, walking across the atrium to a door Jack hadn't opened. It dances back and forth, cooing, chirping to him. Jack pauses, quirking an eyebrow.

 

He doesn't question it – just gives the door a solid push The door gives way easily. The smell is heavenly.

It's a dinning room – spacious, lanterns hanging from the dome ceilings. The yellow light splashes warm color over the lonely room. Empty couches lay elegantly placed around a giant table... A giant table filled with _food_ – roasted chicken, beef still on the bone, slabs of beautifully marbled fish, vegetables and fruits as far as the eye can see. Breads of every size and shape, sauces still simmering in their pains. An enormous jar of wine sits at the uppermost couch, where Reaper sits in front of a slab of salmon, purring.

The cat opens one lazy eye when it sees Jack. It stretches, rolling onto it's back, mewling as Jack walks in.

“I didn't know you could cook.” Jack says quietly, his mouth watering. It's nothing like the grand buffets held in Morrison Villa – the food isn't piled up into fanciful shapes, the finery is simple, the table isn't filled with “exotic” foods from “exotic” places.

 

It's _better_.

 

Jack remembers this food from his youth. Their all Illios favorites – Illios cows, Illios bird, hell, he can practically see Illios written in the scales of the braised fish.

 

Great-bird jumps and runs into the dining room, yanking Jack from his reprieve. It leaps around him, onto a bowl of fat grapes, devouring them messily. Reaper spits from it's spot, hopping down from the couch and running at the bird to fight it off.

“Be nice.” Jack snatches the cat mid-stride, lifting it to his chest. The bird continues to smugly eat it's grapes, “Share. It's not like we're lacking.”

 

The head couch has soft pillows along the back – he sits, looking everything over - he has _no_ clue where to start.

Reaper squirms and wriggles free, leaping onto the table and walking between the trays to the very top of the table. He lifts up something with his mouth and eases off the table, trotting up to Jack with a slip of card stock.

Jack takes the card and reads it over.

 

_Eat your fill – if you want someth_ _ing specific, say so and it will be brought_ _to you._ _I'm sorry I couldn't eat with you._

_See you tonight._

 

He should be afraid. The card should fill his belly with ice, should shake him to the bone. He's not alone – he's _never_ been alone in this house.

His...husband. He's watching him. Jack places the card down onto the table. Great-bird gives a happy squawk, fluttering it's wings. Reaper is pawing at the grapes, clawing one into it's mouth.

“Whoa, _hey._ ”

The cat gives a surprised murmur as it's yanked up.

“Cat's can't eat that.” Jack explains to the blinking cat, “Here. You like fish right? All cats like fish.”

He plops back onto the couch, tearing hunks of fish with one hand and holding Reaper in the other. It happily takes morsels from Jack's fingers, tail wagging in dog-like delight.

“Look, don't get used to this.” Jack chides half-heartedly, tearing off more fish. The bird gulps down the last of the grapes and greedily begins to peck at an unopened watermelon, “And _you.”_

 

He pins the bird with a glare, “Can you at least act like you've got _some_ manners? Don't be gross.”

The dining room becomes fairly quiet, the only sound the cat's quiet chewing and the clack of the bird's beak. It's an awful din in the other-wise silent room.

Jack had always been around people – dinner is spent in other's company, after all. There's never been a time he's dined alone.

Even with his new friends beside him, he certainly feels that sitting in the too-big dining room.

 

 

 

~*~

 

So they take their meal outside.

 

His stola is now littered with grease and sauce stains, but watching the stars dot the endless sky is entirely worth it.

Reaper pats his arm, wanting to be held and fed again.

“I told you not to get used to it.” Jack pats the cat on the head, “And _no_ you don't get any of my food, go eat what's left.”

 

The cat gives a long-suffering meow, continuing the pat on his arm.

 

“Don't be a brat.” he bites into an apple, the juice flooding his mouth. It's a warm night. It almost smells like rain. Fluffy, purple clouds rumbling across the sky, lazily passing the waning moon.

Jack looks between the leaves – autumn has come, winter's not far to follow. What does the forest look like, Jack wonders, in the very depths of the cold? Does it snow? Ice? It rarely snows in Illios, it's too warm...he'd always wanted to see the great snows they talk about up north. The forest must become so quiet...

 

He sits forward, taking another bite of the apple (and ignoring the cat's more insistent pats).

 

For a second, he wonders if he's really asleep, if this has been one giant, fantastical dream, and he's going to wake up at home, in his bed. It's...almost set in. It waxes and wanes, like the tide - one moment he can understand his surroundings, the other he feels like he's in a fog.

“Wouldn't that be funny?” He asks no-one in particular, absentmindedly pulling the cat to cuddle in his lap, “If this was just one giant dream?”

The apple lays on his side, forgotten. Reaper looks up at him, whiskers twitching. The bird snaps it up, nestling by his side.

A weird kind of numbness fills his bones. It lingers in his mouth, like a too-sweet kiss. He wipes the juice from his fingers into the velvety grass below him and picks up the card. He looks over it for a moment more, resting his arms on his crossed legs. It's fine paper, thicker and sturdier than he's ever seen before. He's seen this kind once or twice before, on fancy letters written between his father and emperors in the surrounding countries. It's expensive material, worth it's weight in coin.

 

He flips it over again, looking at the other side of the card and starts – there are more words written on the back. _Sleep well._ _Don't turn on the lantern._ Jack frowns at the words, the card becoming heavier. His hand falls into his lap. He's still learning not to be shocked by anything – birds that act like children, lanterns that light themselves, rooms with voices, cats that act like men, really, it's all a little much. His mother used to tell him stories like these, of fantastic castles and the masters that ruled them.

He lays back, arms crossing over his stomach. Reaper walks over his chest, sniffing at mouth.

 

“I don't think I'd mind,” His fingers drum against his belly, “If this was all some strange dream. All I want to do now is wake up in my own bed, with my own family around me. Not that you're not great company.”

 

The cat flops onto his chest as Jack scratches his cheek. Reaper presses his face into Jack's hand.

“Actually, I'd only want to wake up if you were there.”

 

One golden eye opens as Jack continues to scratch, the rumbling purr tickling his fingertips. Jack huffs as laugh, pausing only to bop the cat's nose.

“Who did you even belong to, huh? You're much too smart for some alley cat.” Jack sits up on his elbows, staring down at Reaper, “Guess you belonged to...”

 

He looks around the estate, back at the house – lanterns glow behind the covered windows, the wind the only sound in the quiet forest. The wind chime jingles quietly.

“I guess you belonged to whoever owns this place. Seems lavish for a war beast.” It's a weird moment of unease. Jack's no fool, it's easy to tell there's a lot more to the house that what he's already seen. The priestess had made it seem this “war beast” was cave-dwelling dragon, hell bent on eating live, young flesh.

 

There was no way she could have meant this. As dusty and lonely as the walls were, it was obvious to see someone loved the place. And sure, maybe she was wrong (Jack doubted that) and maybe she had miscalculated the entire situation.

“I wish you could talk.” Jack sighs, resting his head on his shoulder. Great-bird squawks, frowning at him over it's colorful beak.

“Yeah, yeah, you too – I wish you could talk to.” He pats the grass beside him, coaxing the bird to settle down, “I'm sure you'd have plenty to say. Suppose I'm going to have to give you a name, won't I? Can't keep calling you _Bird_.”

The bird shakes it's head, puffing it's plume.

“We'll have to find something as creative as _Reaper_ , don't you think?”

Reaper gives a very unimpressed meow.

 

 

 

~*~

 

The moon rises high in the sky. Reaper and Great-Bird seem to listen to him like he's an old friend as he chatters on about everything and nothing in particular. Great-bird likes to nuzzle his hair, grooming it, yanking out stray strands every now and then. Eventually Reaper swats at Great-Bird, who yanks it's beak back and begins to squawk in displeasure. Jack has to hide his laugh as he scolds Reaper, reminding him to be nice to their new friend. He can't help but notice the sullen look Reaper gives him.

 

He doesn't want to go to bed.

 

Great-Bird is curled up in a tight ball, feathers rising and falling with every snore and even Reaper is dozing off. He takes a hint. Picking Reaper up, he gives the bird a gentle pat and climbs the stairs back into the house.

The lanterns have died down to a low hum – the halls are illuminated but dim.

 

He stands in front of his door, grasping the knob. It's not that bad outside, he thinks, still holding Reaper in one hand. Maybe if he snuck a blanket from the room and went back outside to sleep with Great-Bird, he'd be fine. There don't seem to be any animals in the forest, after all, and Reaper would let him know if there was something lurking around.

….or maybe the library. It was nice and cool in there, dark. He could push a few chairs together into a bed.... Jack sighs, slumping forward until his forehead is pressed against the door. Reaper looks up at him with a soft murring sound – he knows he's being childish. It's silly to be afraid but....

If his husband wanted him dead, wouldn't he have done hours ago? Hell, he probably could have done it as he slept this morning. There were so many opportunities that he could have been killed, and his new husband hadn't done anything.

Maybe he never wanted to kill him in the first place...maybe he needed him for something else...

 

Jack grimaces, tightening his hold on the knob – he hadn't really considered _sex_ until now. He's not naive and he's not uneducated, he knows that's just standard married affair.

_I'll see you tonight_ _Don't turn on the lantern_

 

Obviously someone would be joining him in bed. Be they man or beast, they would be beside him and god-knows what they wanted to do.

From what little he knows about.... _that,_ he knows that it will be painful and exhausting until his husband has exhausted himself. If he was lucky, it would be brief and he would have to lay there and wait.

 

It would probably feel endless. Jack turns the knob slowly. The fireplace is lit but starting to die down, the lowlight flooding the room. No one there.

He deposits Reaper onto the bed and undresses. The tunic that he woke up in is still there on the floor, he slips it on, the loose fit comforting. The sheets are cool as he slips between them.

Reaper yawns and stretches and curls on the pillow beside Jack's, falling asleep just as Jack lays his head down and pulls the sheets up to his chest. He takes a deep breath as the lights slowly grow dimmer and dimmer until the fire has died and the room is dark. The only thing he can hear is Reaper's purring.

 

 

 

~*~

And so he waits

 

 

 

~*~

 

Reaper waits as well.

 

He slips away when Jack is half-way to slumber, padding quietly against the floor. The window is still open - his form changes shape, fading, becoming mist.

 

He floats down to the ground, form solidifying again.

 

For a second, Reaper watches the window, tail curled around him protectively. His heart beats in his little chest, shaking him...

So this is what love feels like.

 

Reaper pads across the gravel path, a glow-fly landing on his head. He doesn't brush it away, letting it travel on him as he walks to Great-Bird.

 

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes."

 

Great-Bird unfurls, stretching out it's limbs.

 

"Good! By the _gods_ do I ache. When was the last time we _did_ this?" Great-Bird flops over, legs kicking in the air, "And what was with all the snapping? Kind of rude, don't you think, Commander?"

"Don't complain!" Glow-fly buzzes from Reaper's head, floating around him, "I didn't even get to see him!"

 

"That's because you were _late_ , Hana" Great-Bird points a wing at it, "Seriously? Didn't we practice this, like, a dozen times?"

"It's not _my_ fault your signals suck. You were supposed to start singing the moment you saw him!"

 

"Will you two knock it off." Reaper snaps, flicking his ear, "Lena, good job; Hana, be on time next time."

"Good job? You certainly didn't act like it!" Lena fluffs her feathers up, "You were snapping and hissing the entire time, what was _that_ all about?!"

"The boss has a crush," Hana sniggers as Reaper's haunches raise in embarrassment. She floats and lands on Lena's beak, blinking with every word, "It's so cute."

"It is pretty cute - you really had him fooled you're just a little kitty." Lena giggles.

"Can't you two take this seriously?" Reaper grumbles, twitching his whiskers.

"We _are_ taking this seriously!" Hana snaps, "Do you know how much cooking we had to do today?!"

"Yeah, and _cleaning_." Lena groans, "Why did we bring him here, Commander? Why not _our_ home? Why all the charade?"

Hana's wings flutter, “Yeah – why not just be, you know...honest?”

"Because I want peace and quiet." Reaper says, "And I want him to know me as...you know, not as a _God_ just as me. Just as _us_. Besides, it's not like I'm that handsome anymore – the last thing I need is to scare him away."

"But eventually he's going to find out." Lena counters softly, "It's just inevitable. Do you really think we'll be able to keep this up? I know you had this all planned out, Commander, but with where we are, _what_ we are and...” Lena grimaces, tapping her feathers against her sides, “And with your...illness...do you really think that's fair?"

Hana hums, her glow fading. Reaper twitches his lips, giving a cough.

He'd held it in all day, forced to swallow them down, but they're starting to burn his throat. He bristles for a moment, clearing his throat. Sneezes.

A stream of smoke comes from his throat.

 

Reaper pauses. Looks them over...Hana's light has gone dim, Lena deflates.

He's practically raised them both - they've been with him for as long as he can remember. Sprites are fickle to begin with, but they've always been loyal, always told him the truth. Stood beside him at the worst of his illness and stand beside him now as he learns to live with it. Members of his own family have shied away from him, frightened by his injuries A lot of other Celestials wouldn't appreciate that...now, Reaper's wondering if _he_ does.

 

"We do it for as long as we can. And if things change, we'll act accordingly."

 

Lena and Hana exchange looks. The commander is...more level-headed than this normally.

 

But they still follow him into the house.

 

 

 

~*~

 

He's half-way dozing when he finally feels the bed dip. It takes everything in him not to yelp in surprise. Jack stays still, his hands folded over his belly, wringing the bedsheets together. He hadn't even heard the door open...Jack blinks stupidly in the darkness, taking a deep breath.

“I suppose introductions are in order.” He says quietly, to the thing that sits on the bed beside him. It... _him_ he supposes, smells nice. A very soft cologne, almost like fresh-cut redwood. He can just _barely_ hear breathing as the sheets are pulled open and someone slides next to him.

Their body is...warm.

 

“My name is John. Of the House of Morrison.” Jack says to the ceiling.

“Hello John of the House of Morrison” the voice isn't...all that frightening. In fact it's pleasant, warm even. A light tone, chuckling softly, “Would you like me to say the full title, or would _Jack_ be okay?”

Jack's breath hitches, “I...sure, I guess. If you want.”

“All right. Reaper told me you did some exploring today. Think you'll like it here?”

Jack's quirks an eyebrow. “I guess. It's...it's nice here.”

 

Jack makes a noise as an arm creeps over his abdomen, resting on his side. It's a perfectly innocent.

 

“Is this okay?”

“What?”

“ _This_.” The arm slung over his belly moves slightly, “I guess I wanted to touch you. Make sure you're real, not a figment of my imagination.”

Jack gives a nervous laugh, “Sure...sure it's fine. Though, _I_ should be saying that, you know.”

The voice sighs gently.

“I hope you'll be happy here,” it takes a breath, pausing, as if to collect it's words, “I'm happy to have you. If you want anything, just tell Reaper, it'll show up. He speaks very highly of you.”

“Okay.” Jack shifts, blinking, "I didn't know Reaper could actually talk."

The voice laughs - it's nice, smooth. Something rests on his chin, bristly...a beard?

 

“What's his name?”

“Hmm?”

“His name?” Jack asks quietly, “Is his name really Reaper?”

“Who?” The voice asks, “The cat?”

“Yeah- Yes.” Jack corrects himself quickly, “I just named him that because of his spots, I'm sure that's not his real name...I don't even know _your_ name.”

There was the real question. There's a pause. And then another laugh, softer this time.

“Get some sleep Jack.” The linens shift and suddenly.... suddenly there are lips against his. They're _human_ , he thinks as his husband kisses him gingerly, human and soft and _smooth_. The bristle of the beard brushes against his cheek as the voice pulls away and sheepishly apologizes.

“Good night,” Jack says quietly, one hand reaching up to brush against his lips. They're almost tingling, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

Jack doesn't know when he falls asleep but eventually he does. He wakes up for a moment as arms pull him back against a solid chest.

Maybe his husband wasn't so bad after all.

 

 

 

~*~

 

Gabriel watches him fall asleep. There's a special blend in the fireplace, a smell that relaxes people quickly. He'd made sure that the sheets were cooled, that the room was correctly lit and warm, everything was _perfect_ and he still felt silly talking to Jack.

He shouldn't. He'd been with him all day. Curling his body around Jack's, it's easy to tell how head-over-heels he's become.

It's silly. He _feels_ silly, but all he wants to do is smother Jack with kisses and love-bites. He wants Jack to return his affection, to snuggle against him and call his name and as innocent as his love burns, there's still a moment of lascivious desire when Jack begins to bite his lip in his sleep.

Gabriel controls himself and instead lets his consciousness drift into dreams of a future where Jack happily responds with kisses of his own and talks to him tenderly and quietly in the sanctity of their wedding bed.

 

A glow-fly gently floats from the window, flutters across the room and lands on his arm. Hana walks until she's looking over Gabriel's shoulder at Jack, observing him closely.

 

"He's really young."

"Yes. He is."

"And he's cute...not bad, boss."

Gabriel laughs softly, brushing his hand across Jack's cheek, "Thanks, Hana."

 

After a moment she speaks again.

 

"I hope you two will be happy."

"Me too."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am   
>  so tired
> 
> this story is not abandoned, not by a long shot - this originally was part of a much larger chapter, but speaking to Happy, i realized - this is waaayy too long for one chapter. So I've split them up into more bite-sized nuggets   
>  that being said, "nuggets" implies something that's not novella sized.
> 
> **Who inspired this? Why none other than this amazing artist right here - go say hello, they're the best[ohappyfair](http://ohappyfair.tumblr.com) ** ****
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  **Find me on**[Twitter](https://twitter.com/BrotherOswald) and [Tumblr](https://berevityandquiet.tumblr.com//)  
>   
> 

**Author's Note:**

> MY HANDS HURT
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  SO I PARTICIPATED IN THE R76 BIG BANG.
> 
> THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  First of all, I need to give an amazingly big shout out to my artist - [ohappyfair](http://ohappyfair.tumblr.com) is quite possibly one of the nicest people I've met. They've been so amazingly supportive and kind, even when I'm being a total putz and forgetting to talk to people. They are so wonderfully talented, I'm so honored to have had a chance to work with them.
> 
>  The moment I saw their art work, I literally said outloud _I have to write for this_. _The Story of Cupid and Psyche_ is right up there with _East of the Sun, West of the Moon_ on my list of favorite mythos (eagle eyed readers will see quickly that they're the same story). There is something just so unearthly beautiful about that story, something of true love.
> 
>  You'll notice that I changed the story around a little to fit Overwatch's overall theme. And let me say right off the bat - this is NOT going to be an Angela bashing story. There are reasons for every action
> 
>  I'll post the next chapter on Mondays until it's finished! I might be able to edit together so that it's only two chapters, but let's see how that editing process goes ^^;
> 
>  enjoy!
> 
>    
>  **Find me on**[Twitter](https://twitter.com/OswaldSleepy) and [Tumblr](https://berevityandquiet.tumblr.com//)  
>   
>  p.s. - motown lovers might get a kick out of that name


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